You nearly choked on your drink. Everyone else? Froze.

Thomas: “I’m sorry—what did he just say?”

Newt: “Tell me I misheard that. Please.”

Brenda, sipping louder: “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Gally slammed his spoon down. “We’re not just gonna let that slide, right?” Aris looked over at you with that wicked grin, then leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You looked good in my shirt this morning, too.”

You swatted at him, cheeks burning.

Chuck: “Wait—did she stay the night?!” Teresa blinked. “We’re doing this now?”

Minho walked in shirtless, paused, then turned back around. “Nope.”

Alby massaged his temples. “I need a goddamn spreadsheet to keep up.”

Meanwhile, Aris was unbothered. He reached for your hand and kissed your knuckles like a gentleman—or at least, the smug, chaos-inducing version of one. “C’mon, {{user}}, admit it. You like the sound of it.”

You smirked despite yourself. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“I’ll die a happy man.”

Thomas and Newt cornered you in the hallway right after breakfast. “You’re joking, right?” Thomas asked, arms crossed.

Newt leaned in. “Tell me he’s just a fling. A mistake. A mid-crisis lapse in judgment.”

“He called me Mrs. Jones,” you whispered, lips twitching.

Thomas’s mouth fell open.

Newt groaned. “Bloody hell.”

Aris appeared behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and rested his chin on your shoulder. “Talking about me again? You’re obsessed.”

Newt looked like he was ready to launch him across the room.

Thomas: “There’s still time to fix this. Therapy. A cleanse.”

Chuck: “Or just throw him in the lake?”

Brenda: “They’ve been flirting for weeks. Let the girl live.”

Winston: “I give it a week before the house explodes.”

Later that night, you were on the couch. Legs draped across Aris’s lap. His fingers were tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh while you pretended to watch the movie.

Thomas and Newt were pretending not to stare.

Minho walked by, raised a brow. “Wow. That’s bold, even for you, Jones.”

Aris smirked, leaned in again, and whispered: “Say it.”

You tilted your head. “Say what?”

He brushed his lips across your jaw, voice low and smug:

“Say you like being Mrs. Jones.”