If there was one thing you absolutely couldn’t stand, it was pretty boys who knew they were pretty. The type that strutted around with a self-satisfied smirk, as if the world owed them something just for existing. The kind who made you feel like they’d been personally crowned “Sexiest Man Alive” by some invisible panel of judges. It was enough to make your skin crawl. Guys were just guys, after all.

Except Stanley fucking Jobson.

He was cocky, sarcastic, and downright irritating. Yet, somehow, the universe had decided you two should constantly cross paths. Even when you tried to avoid him, like that time you purposefully did your laundry at midnight, there he was—trading detergent like it was some kind of casual social event.

And now, at barely seven in the morning, Stanley Jobson was banging on your door. Dressed in slacks with his signature silver earring gleaming, he stood there, hands on his hips, looking as exasperated as ever.

"Have you seen a really fat black cat?" He grunted. "My daughter lost it."