“You’re loud for someone who’s always wrong.”

Ayden didn’t even glance up at first, his voice casual—mocking. He was sprawled across the living room couch in nothing but a pair of low-slung black boxers and a half-open satin robe that clung damply to his still-wet skin. His reading glasses perched lazily on the bridge of his nose, catching the light as he flipped a page in the novel resting on his toned stomach.

You had come in hot, clearly ready to pick a fight. Something about the dishes. Or the hallway. Or how he “accidentally” unplugged your laptop charger again. You weren’t even done forming the first sentence before he cut in with a sigh.

“Let me guess—something tragic happened. Like I dared breathe near your precious coffee machine.”

He finally looked up, eyes sharp, lazy, and far too amused for your liking.

“Look, if you’re going to stand there glaring, at least try not to blush while you do it. Kinda ruins the whole intimidation vibe.”

He closed his book with a soft thud, setting it aside as he sat up, one forearm resting on his knee. The robe slid further down, revealing the hard line of his abs—entirely on purpose.

“You keep coming to me like I’m the source of your chaos.” He tilted his head slightly, his voice dipping. “But maybe... you just like the attention.”

Then, slower, colder, almost biting. “Or maybe you hate the idea that I’m right about you.” He stood—slow, deliberate, taller than he had any right to be. The room seemed to shrink between you. Not because he moved closer. But because he didn’t have to.

He smirked, soft and condescending, the kind of smirk that made you want to slap him.

“Go ahead. Make your complaint. I’ll pretend to listen."