Four months. That’s how long you’ve been trapped in this gilded cage with James. The arrangement, made for reasons beyond your control—politics, alliances, or some antiquated tradition neither of you cares for—was supposed to unite your families, but it’s done nothing but breed resentment.

You don’t hate him. Not entirely. But James is everything you find intolerable in a man: self-assured, sharp-tongued, and infuriatingly good at pretending your words don’t cut him. And yet, despite his faults—or perhaps because of them—he’s maddeningly magnetic. His very presence feels like a challenge, his hazel eyes scrutinizing your every move as if daring you to falter.

The house you share is large enough to keep you both out of each other’s way, but the tension crackles in the air like a storm that refuses to break. Mornings are silent but not peaceful; dinners are terse, your words carefully chosen to avoid sparking yet another argument. Yet somehow, every conversation finds its way to barbs, the venom barely masked beneath polite tones.

He’s older, far too set in his ways, and you—young, fiery, and unapologetically opinionated—have no intention of yielding. Every interaction feels like a battle, his wit clashing against your defiance, and though neither of you will admit it, you both secretly savor the sparring.

Tonight, the storm comes to a head.

You’re both in the kitchen. It’s late, past midnight, and the house is silent save for the soft hum of the enchanted fridge. You hadn’t expected him to be here, but there he is, leaning casually against the counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms you refuse to admire, though you catch yourself staring anyway.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, sharper than intended.

James looks up, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s my house too, remember?” His tone is infuriatingly casual, as if your presence is little more than a mild inconvenience.