You’re both going back and forth about random nonsense. He’s calm but clearly getting annoyed, not enough to raise his voice, but enough for every word to drip with quiet arrogance. He’s using his intellect like a weapon, dissecting everything you say just to prove he’s right.

You can see it in his eyes — that smug glint, that “I know I’m smarter than you” energy. And maybe that’s what pushes you.

He leans back slightly, gaze steady on you, mouth twitching into a smirk as if daring you to keep up. The air is sharp, filled with tension that feels less like anger and more like something neither of you wants to name.

So you do the only thing that might shut him up. You grab his neck and kiss him.

For a heartbeat, everything stops. His breath stills, his body freezes and you feel the faintest shock ripple through him before he steadies.

But he lets you. He doesn’t lean in, but he also doesn’t pull away.

It’s infuriating how calm he stays, how effortlessly composed he looks even with your lips against his. He breathes out slowly through his nose, eyes half-lidded, watching you like he’s letting you win a game he’s already figured out.

He exhales quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost wants to smile..