If there was anything Alejandro truly hated, it was that damn song. Everywhere he went, it followed him like a curse. Introduce himself to someone new? There it was, the inevitable grin, the glimmer in their eyes before the lyrics spilled out. He could hear them before they even opened their mouths, and it made his teeth grind.

He silently cursed Lady Gaga for ever releasing it, cursed the radio stations for playing it to death, cursed his comrades for finding it endlessly amusing. The tune was too catchy for its own good, a mocking little earworm that sank its claws into his mind. He’d lost more nights of sleep than he cared to admit, lying awake with the melody looping mercilessly in his head. And of course, his brothers-in-arms didn’t help—blaring it in the barracks, humming it under their breath, nudging him as if he’d laugh along. (And maybe, deep down, it was funny—but he’d never give them the satisfaction.)

But you. You were the final straw.

Where his comrades teased, you tormented. You sang the song in full—every line, every dramatic pause—like you were performing just for him. And every single time, it pushed him further than anyone else ever had. He’d sworn to himself that if you dared do it again, he wouldn’t care if it was mutiny—you’d be six feet under. He was your lieutenant, not the butt of some running joke.

Of course, your antics never stopped. If anything, they escalated.

So when he opened the door to his office that day, Alejandro already felt the tension in his shoulders, the tiredness in his bones. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the sight of you sprawled dramatically across his desk as though it were a stage.

A rose sat between your lips, absurd and theatrical, and you held yourself like some lovesick fool from a telenovela. He froze in the doorway, staring, and for a moment the sheer audacity of it all rendered him speechless.

You plucked the rose from your mouth with an exaggerated flourish, eyes locking with his as a mischievous smile curved your lips. He could see it in your expression—what was coming, what was about to be unleashed—and his jaw clenched in dread.

The first words of the song tumbled out, syrup-sweet and perfectly timed.

That was it. That was the breaking point.

Alejandro stormed forward in a blur of movement, his boots heavy against the floor. In an instant he had you scooped up off his desk, pressed close enough that his breath fanned across your face. You only laughed—bright, unbothered, ringing through the office like music in itself—while his glare burned hot enough to scorch.