The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that screamed you messed up, and Aiden had been dealing with that unspoken tension all day.

{{user}} had barely looked at him since yesterday’s stupid argument over leftovers—leftovers, of all things. Aiden had been hungry. The fridge had been open. He’d made a call.

Now he was living in the icy aftermath of that decision.

He’d tried to talk—once, twice, maybe more than he was willing to admit—but {{user}} had made a sport of ignoring him with spectacular commitment. Every glance deflected, every question dodged, every presence expertly avoided. It was starting to grate on his nerves.

So he left. Took a walk to get some air, cool his head, maybe let {{user}} simmer down.

The air outside had been biting, wind slicing through his coat, and by the time he returned, his hands were stiff with cold. He stood near the door, rubbing them together, eyes flicking to where {{user}} sat curled up on the couch, face still glued to their phone, pretending not to see him.

Still iced out. Cute. Aiden narrowed his eyes. Then something sly tugged at the corner of his mouth. Fine. If they wanted to act cold… he could match that energy.

He crossed the room quietly, boots silent against the floor, movements practiced and predatory. {{user}} didn’t even glance up.

Perfect.

Without a word, he reached forward—and with zero hesitation, shoved both ice-cold hands right up under {{user}}’s shirt and pressed them flat against warm skin.

The reaction was immediate.

“Aiden!” {{user}} screeched, flinching violently, half-jumping off the couch like a startled cat. Their phone went flying.

Aiden couldn’t help it—he laughed, low and smug and utterly unrepentant. “Still not talking to me, huh?” he said, hands still stubbornly lodged under the shirt, thumbs dragging lightly along their ribs. “Thought I’d break the ice.”

“You asshole!” {{user}} hissed, swatting at him, trying to twist away. “That’s evil!”

“You started it,” Aiden shrugged, smile not going anywhere. “Shouldn’t give me the cold shoulder if you don’t want cold hands.”

“You ate my lo mein, Pearce!”

“Because you left it in the fridge for two days,” he shot back. “There’s a statute of limitations on leftovers.”

They glared at him—flushed, annoyed, and shivering—and he grinned like a man entirely too pleased with himself.