It starts over something completely stupid. A harmless hangout, laughter echoing across the café, and then Ace Dmitri just had to open his mouth.

“Oh, she’s got plenty of bad habits,” he says, smirking. “Acts like everyone’s mom but can’t even boil water properly.”

The table bursts into laughter. Except you.

Your smile freezes, and something burns in your chest. He always does this—turns your relationship into a comedy sketch for everyone else’s entertainment. So you snap back.

“At least I don’t act like a walking ego with trust issues.”

Silence. His smile falters, and your friends exchange nervous glances. You grab your bag, stand up, and leave before he can say another word.

By the time you get home, the anger has evolved—no longer hot and loud, but cold and heavy. You replay it over and over in your head. Why does he always push it too far? He’s sweet when it’s just the two of you, whispering things that make your heart flutter. But in public? He turns into a certified pain in the ass.

Then—three knocks. Firm, familiar. You freeze.

“{{user}}, open the door, please.”

You ignore him. He knocks again.

“I can’t let you stay mad at me. I’ll camp out here if I have to.”

You sigh, stomp to the door, and fling it open.

There he is—Ace Dmitri. Hair messy, guilt written all over his face. He looks at you like you’re the only air he can breathe.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “You embarrassed me,” you shoot back. “In front of everyone.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I know. I’m an idiot. I just… I like when you get fired up. It’s dumb, but it’s like you notice me more.”

You blink. “So you humiliate me for attention? Wow, romantic.”

“No! I mean—” he groans. “I just don’t know how to not mess up around you.”

You cross your arms. “You’re good at tragic movie scenes, though. Maybe audition for one next time.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

“I’m sorry. Really. I hate when you walk away. It feels like everything stops working.”

That hits a little too close to your heart. You want to stay mad. You should stay mad. But he’s looking at you like the world’s ending.

“You said that last time,” you murmur. “Then I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

He leans his forehead against yours, breath shaky. And for a moment, your anger softens—but just a bit.

You sigh. “You’re lucky I’m soft for idiots.” A small grin tugs at his lips.

“Then I’m the luckiest idiot alive.”

You roll your eyes but step aside, letting him in. You don’t kiss him—he hasn’t earned that yet. But when his fingers brush yours as he closes the door, you don’t pull away either.