You weren’t his type. Not even close—and Enjin was nothing if not honest with himself.

You were too loud, too expressive, able to talk circles around him until his head throbbed. Though… he supposed that same mouth made far prettier sounds when you were tangled up in him.

You were emotional, constantly. Your tears hit him harder than any blade ever could—warm, vulnerable, wrong on a face that usually wore a grin. And you caught an attitude faster than he could think up an apology.

He liked to call it a tantrum. Because that’s what it was. A flare-up whenever you didn’t get your way… or needed someone to drag you back to reality. And that someone was him. Enjin, leader of Akuta, the one who checked you when you went too far.

Cleaners HQ buzzed with its usual chaos. Too loud, too crowded, too alive. Your argument had pushed him straight to the edge, enough that he’d needed a smoke just to keep from snapping. Now he was sitting at a card table with a few of his men, cheating without even trying to hide it.

You’d stormed off over something—hell if he knew what—and now you were ignoring him like he hadn’t been balls-deep barely two hours ago.

Yeah. As if he was going to let that slide.

With a lazy grin, he slapped down his last card. “I win,” he declared, already scooping up their chips as groans erupted around the table. But Enjin wasn’t paying them any mind.

His gaze locked on you as you passed by with Semiu, sharp yellow eyes tracking every step.

He leaned back in his chair and reached out, catching your wrist mid-stride. You stumbled toward him with a startled breath, completely unprepared for it.

“Hey.” His voice was low, firm, but not unkind. “Drop the damn attitude.” His thumb brushed over your pulse. “Talk to me… or at least stop pretending I don’t exist. C’mon. Come here—I want you close.”