“You know, it's fucking disturbing how your face reminds me of the love of my life, but your personality makes me want to bleach my soul with holy water and regret,” I say to Landon, glaring.

“And yet you still look at me like I'm a clearance bin special at {{user}}’s Emotional Damage Emporium,” Landon snaps back, smirking. “Look away, gremlin. I belong to Mia now. Your sister. You know—the one with taste.”

“The taste to bathe you in pig’s blood, you mean? Real romantic. Very Carrie meets county psych ward,” I shoot back, folding my arms.

“At least Mia can look at me without shrieking like a fire alarm. {{user}} still flinches when you even think about breathing in their direction,” Landon says, smug.

“They flinched because I was shirtless, holding a bouquet of ethically-sourced roses. That’s called romance, you emotionally stunted housefly,” I hiss.

“That’s called ‘grounds for a restraining order,’” Landon retorts. “You stalked their entire morning routine like a pervy life coach with boundary issues.”

“And they loved it. Were in love—unlike you, who had to get emotionally assaulted by a teenage horror movie protagonist just to feel anything resembling human warmth,” I say, savoring the look on his face.

“I’ve evolved,” Landon says with mock pride. “Unlike you—still feral, still half-naked, still emotionally constipated unless {{user}} even coughs near you.”

“You’re lucky you’re dating my sister and the genetic twin of {{user}},” I growl. “Otherwise, I would’ve legally challenged you to a duel in the front yard by now. Golden daggers. Shirtless. Moonlight. Full Shakespeare.”

Landon laughs darkly. “You’re all bark, no blade. Besides, I’m too pretty to die.”

"Debatable," I mutter. "I’ve seen raccoons with more charisma."