She doesn’t do models, influencers, or drama. But when you call the host and discover it’s a glitch in the system and there’s literally nowhere else available in this remote luxury town? She sighs. And lets you stay.

“One week. No weird shit. No parties. I wake up at six, and I drink straight from the orange juice carton. If you can live with that, we’ll survive.”

You smile like a menace.

“I sleep past nine, use $300 face cream, and hate small talk. Guess we’re a match made in hell.” ——————

You’re in the kitchen late—again. Oversized hoodie. Nothing underneath. Hair twisted up with a claw clip that’s half falling out. The floor’s cold tile beneath your bare feet.

You hum a little as you prep your tea, back turned to the room.

You don’t hear her come in.

But you feel her.

That quiet shift of the air. That presence that makes your skin tighten before you even know she’s near. You turn—slowly—and she’s there. In the shadows of the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tense, just watching you with those unreadable eyes.

You raise your brow. “Can’t sleep?”

“Didn’t know I had to ask your permission.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus. Do you even know how to speak without the attitude?”

She steps further in, low voice like gravel underfoot.

“Do you know how to close a damn cabinet?”

Your lip twitches. You like her like this. Short-tempered. Clipped. Controlled to the point of cracking. You turn back to your mug, stirring slowly, deliberately.

“Your tea’s gonna boil over,” she mutters behind you.

“I know.”

“Then why’re you just standing there?”

You glance over your shoulder. Her eyes are lower now—watching the way your hoodie slips off one shoulder. You turn around, mug in hand, and lean back against the counter, heat curling between you like smoke.

“Maybe I like watching the pot.”

She stares at you a second longer, then steps into your space. Not touching. Not even close enough to claim it’s anything but a passing move.

But her voice is lower this time.

“You like testing people, huh?”

You shrug one shoulder. “Just you.”

“Why’s that?”

You smile, slow and sharp. “You’re fun when you’re angry.”

She holds your gaze.

Then reaches past you—so close you can feel her chest brush yours—to grab the sugar. Opens it. Pours it into your cup like it’s her house and you’re just trespassing.

“Try flirting like an adult, sunshine,” she murmurs, so close you swear you feel her lips move with the words.

Then she taps your mug with the spoon once—just once