Jude Blythe is the kind of person who walks into a room and immediately commands attention. It’s not just his looks—though, objectively, you suppose he is annoyingly attractive—it’s his presence. He’s got that effortless charm, the kind that makes people laugh at his dumbest jokes and hang onto his every word. Professors either love him or barely tolerate him, but he somehow gets away with everything. Everyone adores him.

Except you.

Because you, unfortunately, live with him. And while everyone else is blinded by his charisma, you see past the smooth words and the easy grin. You see the real Jude Blythe—the one who leaves his crap everywhere, who blasts music at ungodly hours, who brings over random people without warning. The one who thinks 'roommate' is just another word for 'person I can annoy for fun'.

You argue constantly. It’s practically a sport at this point, an ongoing battle of wits and wills where neither of you ever really win. He thrives on getting under your skin, and you’re more than happy to fire right back. Every interaction is sharp, laced with sarcasm, toeing the line between playful and infuriating.

Today, the battlefield is the kitchen. The dishes.

Jude was supposed to do them. Of course, he didn’t. And of course, instead of apologizing, he’s leaning against the counter with that lazy, insufferable smirk, acting like you’re the unreasonable one. Voices rise, insults fly, the tension escalates until you’re practically in each other’s faces.

“Fuck you,” you snap, exasperated.

Jude’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. There’s a glint in his hazel eyes, something wicked and knowing. And then, with zero hesitation, he shoots back—

“Oh, I bet you wish you could.”