It started over the dishes.

One plate. One stupid, crusty-ass plate sitting in the sink for two days longer than it should’ve been. She asked him twice. Didn’t yell. Didn’t nag. Just asked.

The third time? She didn’t ask.

“Why is your shit still in the sink?”

JJ looked up from the couch like she’d just ruined his day. “Because I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

She crossed her arms. “It’s been two days.”

“And?” he snapped, sitting up. “What, you think I’m on your clock now?”

She blinked. “No. I think you live here. Eat here. Sleep here. So maybe pick up a fucking sponge once in a while.”

He stood slowly, that familiar twitch already in his jaw. “You want it done? Do it.”

“I’m not your mom.”

“Thank God,” he muttered.

She froze. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.”

“I said thank God,” he repeated. “Because you’re already enough of a nag without trying to play house with me.”

Her chest tightened. “You think asking you to clean up after yourself is nagging?”

“I think you don’t know when to shut up,” he said, walking past her.

That was his mistake.

She turned, furious. “What did you just say?”

He laughed under his breath and shook his head. “You’re so fucking annoying sometimes, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“I come home and it’s never just chill. It’s always something with you. The trash, the dishes, the tone of my voice—like, damn. Pick one.”

She blinked, stunned. “You live like a raccoon. I’m just trying to keep this place from turning into a dump.”

“And I’m trying to breathe,” he snapped. “But apparently living with you means being bitched at 24/7.”

That was it.

Something sharp clicked in her. He saw it, but didn’t stop himself. Not fast enough.

“God, you are such a—”

“Say it,” she dared.

He did.

“You’re such a fucking bitch sometimes.”

Silence.

Heavy. Cold. Blistering.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

He knew—immediately—that he’d crossed the line. His mouth parted like he wanted to take it back, but no sound came out.