Ransom leaned against the doorframe of the old greenhouse, sleeves rolled, sunglasses perched lazily atop his head. He twirled a half-bitten apple between his fingers, watching you with that same infuriating smirk he always wore around you.

You were on your knees, digging into the garden beds your mom insisted needed “constant care” since your family started living on the estate. You could feel his eyes on you before he even said a word.

"You missed a spot," he said, voice smooth and mocking.

You didn’t look up. "Then maybe you should get your trust fund hands dirty and fix it."

Ransom chuckled, taking a slow bite of the apple, like he had all the time in the world. "Why would I? You're doing such a heartwarmingly average job already."

You glanced up, squinting against the sun, dirt smudging your cheek. "You really wake up every day and choose to be unbearable, huh?"

"No," he replied with a tilt of his head. "This just comes naturally."