“You know I don’t do relationships.”

That’s what he said. Real calm. Real serious. Shirt halfway unbuttoned, jaw tight, like this was some hard boundary you were supposed to respect.

And then literally twenty-four hours later he showed up at your door, tossed his hoodie over your shoulders and muttered

“S’cold out. Don’t want my girl gettin’ sick.”

You blinked.

“…Your girl?”

He looked so offended. So genuinely confused you even had to ask.

“Yeah? I mean you’re not seein’ anybody else, right? ‘Cause if you are I’ll kill him. Dead serious. Don’t test me.”

You just stared. And he had the audacity to look smug about it.

Then, the cherry on top? He reached into his pocket, handed you a key to his place.

“Don’t lose it.” He shrugged. “It’s not, like, a relationship thing. It’s just convenient. And I sleep better when I know you’re close. That’s all.”

That’s all. Said the man who now has a photo of you as his lockscreen. And growls when you talk to waiters.