The night was cold, and the fire crackled softly, its orange glow lighting up the room. The tension between you two was thick, like always. He sat at the far end of the couch, staring at the fire like it held answers to everything unsaid. You sat on the other side, pretending to read a book, though your attention was completely on him.

“What made you hate me so much, {{user}}?” he suddenly asked, his deep voice breaking the silence. You looked up at him, caught off guard but trying to stay composed.

“And you, why did you make it so easy?” you shot back defensively, raising your brow as if challenging him.

He smirked, that annoying smirk that always got under your skin. “You loved blaming me, but you know it’s not that simple.”

You looked away, feeling a strange flutter in your chest. “You don’t know anything about me. And I don’t care to explain.”

He stood up, suddenly, like he was done with the endless back-and-forth. His footsteps were calm as he walked toward you. Each step made your heart race, but you tried to look unbothered.

“I don’t know anything about you?” he said quietly, leaning slightly closer. “But I know you hate how you feel when I’m around. And I know you hate that I see the parts of you you’re trying so hard to hide.”

The space between you two was gone now. His eyes locked with yours, and you felt trapped, unable to look away. His gaze wasn’t just intense—it was angry, determined, and… something else. Something deeper.

“You’re arrogant” you muttered, your voice almost trembling. The words sounded weaker than you wanted.

“And you’re stubborn, {{user}}.” he replied, a small, soft smile tugging at his lips. Before you could snap back, he raised his hand slowly, his fingers brushing the side of your face. His touch was warm, and for some reason, it didn’t scare you—it felt honest.

“But somehow… I like that about you,” he said, his voice low, almost like a confession.