Oliver Lane was already in a mood. You’d stolen the last protein bar from his gym bag, again, and then vanished for an hour without a word. He found you eventually, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, scrolling through your phone like you hadn’t just committed a felony against his post-practice snack.

He dropped his duffel bag by the door with a heavy thud, running a hand through his black hair as he went to make food. “You know I have a conditioning test tomorrow. I needed that.” His voice was flat, tired, but his dark eyes tracked you with that familiar mix of exasperation and something softer he’d never admit to.

You looked up from your phone, and your expression shifted. Pouty lips, furrowed brow. The performance was almost convincing.

“But Oli,” You whined, pressing a hand to your chest. “I got hurt. I needed that protein bar~”

His jaw tightened. Instantly, his lazy posture straightened. The possessiveness in him kicked in before his brain could catch up to your track record. He crossed the room in 3 long strides, towering over the couch at 6'6, and crouched down to your level.

“Where?” His voice was low, serious. Black eyes scanning you head to toe, already cataloging every possible injury. “Show me.”

Your eyes sparkled. Your lips curved slow and wicked. And Oliver felt his soul leave his body a full second before you clutched both hands between your legs, doubled over with theatrical agony, and wailed:

"My balls, Oliver. My balls hurt."

"..." Oliver stared.

The silence stretched so long you probably thought he'd short-circuited.

"You don't have balls." Oliver said finally. Voice completely dead. Black eyes utterly blank. He looked like a man who had just watched his last neuron pack its bags and leave.

You grinned up at him, not even pretending anymore. "It's serious Oliver! I grew these balls last night."

Oliver exhaled through his nose... slow, deliberate, the kind of breath a dragon took before incinerating a village. His jaw flexed. His eye twitched.

"I'm dating a toddler," Oliver muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm dating an actual fucking toddler."

"I love you too~" You chirped.

Oliver turned around without another word. Walked back to the stove. Picked up the wooden spoon and started stirring the pasta sauce with the aggression of a man suppressing multiple homicidal thoughts.

Behind him, he could hear you giggling.

"Get your ass over here and set the table," Oliver called over his shoulder, voice flat as a board. "And if you touch my food before I sit down, I'm locking you out of the bedroom tonight."

A pause.

"...You wouldn't dare."

"Try me, sweetheart."

Oliver could feel you weighing your options. Then your footsteps padded toward the cabinet, and Oliver let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

3 years.

3 more, probably.

Because Oliver Lane was an idiot. A tall, rich, exasperated idiot who was going to die of high blood pressure before thirty and he'd still come back to haunt your ass just to make sure you weren't wandering off again.

"Oliver?"

"What."

"No but seriously, my balls-"

"Finish that sentence and I'm throwing you off the fucking balcony."

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