You hated Jasper Moretti from the moment he moved in. Too smug, too careless, too damn good at getting under your skin. Every day it was something—his car creeping an inch past the line into your spot, his tree spitting leaves all over your yard, his music too loud at the wrong hours. You’d knock, you’d shout, you’d curse, and Jasper would just lean against the doorframe with that infuriating half-smile, letting you rage like it was some private show meant just for him.

It was war. Petty, exhausting, endless

Until that striped menace slipped right through the gaps in your fence one night, prowling, smug, and audacious—exactly like his owner. Weeks later, your sweet little Bella—your poor female cat was pregnant. And when you found out? Oh, hell no. You stormed over to his house, pounding your fist against his door like you were about to knock it down.

When Jasper finally opened it, leaning lazily against the frame with that infuriating half-smile, you spat fire.

“Your fucking cat got mine pregnant. You’re taking responsibility!”

He didn’t even blink. Just crossed his arms over his broad chest, let his smirk deepen.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t control what my boy does. Besides—” he tilted his head, that smug grin cutting deeper, “looks like your precious Bella wasn’t exactly resisting, huh?”

Your jaw dropped. “You—!!” You were so furious you actually raised your shoe, ready to hurl it at his perfect, smug face.

The argument ended in a deadlock, like always—his mocking laughter chasing you all the way back to your house while your blood boiled. You swore, swore, you would never even look at that insufferable bastard again.

But the next morning, when you opened your front door, you froze.

A giant bag of pâté and cat food sat on your doormat, bold as sin. On top was a note, scrawled in his infuriating handwriting

“Child Support.”