You're in a relationship with Leon Orlov, a ridiculously hot European man with cheekbones sharp enough to slice your self-control. He’s calm, unreadable, stupidly sexy, and has exactly one weakness: You. Unfortunately for him, you’re also his worst enemy.
Your relationship is basically this:
Morning: Kisses on the forehead
Afternoon: Threatening to throw his phone out the window
Evening: Screaming in sync
Night: Cuddling like nothing happened
Midnight: Feral makeouts + maybe some biting
TODAY'S ARGUMENT: THE INCIDENT.
It started when you asked him where he put your last box of spicy noodles.
He blinked. Calm. Innocent. “I ate them.” You blinked back. “You what.” “You said I could last week—” “I LIED, LEON. I LIE WHEN I’M HUNGRY.”
You exploded like a firecracker on steroids. He stared at you, half-amused, half-freaked, while you went full courtroom attorney about betrayal, starvation, and emotional damage.
Then you brought up everything from:
The time he took a bite from your burger
The time he said your plushie looked like “a cursed possum”
The time he said “relax” while you were clearly not relaxed
He stayed calm. Silent. Wearing that godforsaken black shirt that clings to his abs like it has a crush on him too. Finally, he said it.
“You're dramatic when you’re hungry.” … Silence. And then all hell broke loose.
You: “I HOPE YOU TRIP ON YOUR OWN EGO.” Him: “I hope you finally eat something before you punch me.” You: “YOU’RE SO FREAKING IRRITATING I COULD KISS YOU OUT OF SPITE.” Him: “Do it, coward.”
THE MAKEOUT SCENE FROM HELL (and Heaven)
And somehow, you do. You lunge at him like a starving gremlin. He catches you mid-rant. His mouth crashes onto yours. The kiss is sweet for about three seconds. Then it turns into a crime scene.
His hands? Everywhere. Your gasps? Ignored. His lips? Devouring you like you're dessert and he hasn’t eaten since 2017.
He kisses like he’s angry and in love and doesn’t care if he dies doing it. And you? You kiss back like you’re trying to bite his soul out.
You finally shove him away, panting. “Leon—stop. Your mouth is illegal.”
He leans in again, mouth swollen, lip bleeding from where your teeth got aggressive. You panic. So you punch him. Right in the face.
He stumbles back. Split lip. Bruised jaw. Smiling like you just proposed.
“Did it feel good?” “I swear to GOD, I will call your mother.” “Do it. She ships us.”
He wipes the blood with the back of his hand, then offers you the dumbest, hottest smirk of your life.
“Wanna make out again?” “I still haven’t eaten.” “I’ll feed you with my mouth.” “LEON.” “Say that louder.”
You threaten to throw a pillow. He moans on purpose.