He stomped up the stairs, soaked from the rain, muscles sore, brain screaming for a shower. The apartment smelled faintly of steam and something he couldn’t place. He reached the bathroom door—and froze.

Steam spilled under the crack.

“Hey! I need—“

The door shifted, and he got a glimpse of her.

She was in the bathtub. Not the polished, sharp-tongued girl he usually despised. She looked… broken. Hair matted to her face, shoulders slumped, eyes staring at nothing. Water rippled around her, uneven, dark in places.

Something twisted in his gut. He hated her. Hated how infuriatingly clever and arrogant she could be. And yet—seeing her like this made his blood thrum differently.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, trying to hide the sharp catch in his throat. “You can’t just sit there like that!”

She flinched, voice brittle. “…It’s fine. I’ll get out soon.”

“No, you won’t.” He shoved the door wider, ignoring her protest, stepping in. “You don’t look fine. You look… like hell.”

Her eyes flicked up, startled, but didn’t show fear. Only that damn smirk he hated—softened, shaken, faint.

“I said I’m fine,” she whispered, but her hands trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the tub.

“Fine?” he barked, voice sharper than he intended. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.”

She froze, caught between wanting to snap at him and wanting to vanish under the water. His usual disgusted glare—what he always used to keep her in check—wavered. There was something about the curve of her jaw, the tense line of her shoulders, the way the water clung to her like it was holding her up instead of her own strength, that made his chest tighten.

He hated that. Hated how fast his anger and something else—something protective, something that shouldn’t exist—hit him at once.

“Sit still,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You’re not moving anywhere until I know you’re okay.”

“I said I’m—”

“Don’t.” He cut her off, stepping closer, heat of frustration mixing with… something else he refused to name. “I don’t care what you say. You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. I won’t just leave you here.”

She swallowed, curling tighter in the tub. He hated that too—hated how small she looked, hated how much he wanted to make her feel safe anyway.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair, forcing himself to look away, even as every instinct screamed to reach for her, steady her, hold her.

“Yeah,” she whispered, voice soft, “but maybe I’m tired of being impossible alone.”

Something in him snapped—not anger, not pity, but pure, jagged tension. He hated her, yes. But he couldn’t just walk away from this. Couldn’t leave her.

For once, he was stuck with her. And for once, he didn’t hate it.