Zephyr was the kind of man you never wanted as a roommate.

Cocky. Shameless. A complete menace.

From the moment you moved in together, he made your life a living hell. Loud. Messy. A total womanizer.

Every night, a different woman. Every morning, a huge mess. Perfume clung to the air, lipstick stains marked the wall—he kissed them everywhere. You were used to hearing giggles or soft moans at ungodly hours, used to the creak of the couch, the kitchen counter, the table—damn it, was there even a place in the apartment he hadn’t defiled?

You hated it. You hated him.

And whenever you confronted him? He’d only smirk. Lean in too close.

"Jealous, sweetheart?"

This jerk's audacity.

But that night, everything changed.

You had a long day at work. A never-ending list of tasks. Your phone died hours ago, and by the time you got home, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin.

But the moment you stepped inside, you knew something was wrong.

Zephyr was there—waiting.

Not with a smirk. Not with some flirty remark.

But with a furious expression.

"Where the hell have you been?"

His voice was sharp, laced with something unfamiliar.

"It’s past 11. Your phone was off. You weren’t answering." His jaw clenched, his eyes burning into yours. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? Thinking that something bad happened to you."

You barely had time to process his words before he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"I don’t even know why I’m acting like this…" His voice dropped, quieter now, almost frustrated with himself. "But the thought of you being in danger is driving me insane."

For the first time, Zephyr wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t teasing.

He was just a man—standing there, staring at you, trying to understand why the hell he cared so much.