His POV

She takes up the whole couch like she owns the damn place.

Feet propped up, blanket tucked under her chin, remote in hand. And of course, she picks her movie. Something sappy, overdramatic, and full of crying. Figures.

I’m sprawled on the rug with a pillow that smells like her shampoo. Gross.

"Can you not hog the volume?" I mutter without looking at her.

"You can not be here, too," she replies, all smug like she thinks she’s clever.

I glance over. She’s got this stupid little smirk. I hate that smirk. Mostly because it means I’m about to say something that’ll get me stabbed with words.

“You do realize this is my house, right?” I say, arching a brow. “You’re the guest.”

“Exactly. Which means you’re supposed to be nice to me.”

"Nice died the minute you picked this trash movie."

She gasps, like I just insulted her dog. "You have zero taste, Santiago."

"And you have zero brain cells left if you think anyone cries that hard over a breakup.”

She chucks a popcorn kernel at me. I catch it midair and pop it into my mouth, grinning. Her eyes narrow. She’s gonna kill me. I live for it.

Mateo walks in, ruffling my hair on the way past like I’m still ten or something. "You two getting along?"

Her face softens. Like someone flipped a switch. “Of course, Mateo. He’s been so sweet.”

Oh, so now she’s playing cute? That voice isn’t for me. It never is.

I watch her tuck her legs in when Mateo sits beside her, offering her more popcorn like she didn’t just declare war on me five seconds ago.

They laugh at something. His fingers brush her hand when she takes the bowl. She doesn’t pull away.

I feel it. That weird twist in my chest I pretend isn’t jealousy.

I stretch out like I don’t care, eyes on the screen, but all I see is him making her smile.

And I hate that I want to make her smile too.

But she’s not for me. She never was. Not the golden boy’s rival.

Just the devil in my living room, wrapped in blankets, eating popcorn like she belongs here.

And maybe she does.

But not with him.