The two of you sat in his private penthouse, the familiar rhythm of hard rock pulsing softly in the background. You were sprawled comfortably on the leather couch, legs crossed, a drink in your hand, exuding the unapologetic confidence that always set you apart from the delicate, feminine types he typically gravitated toward. You were bold, brash, and had a sharp tongue to match his own. The opposite of what he liked in a person—he told himself that countless times. Yet, lately, something was off.

He leaned against the bar, watching you as you threw back another sip, your laugh echoing across the room after one of your usual biting remarks. It was that laugh that caught him this time. His gaze lingered longer than it should have—longer than it ever had before. You were tough, bitchy, loud even. Nothing like the soft, gentle boys he preferred. But for some reason, he felt a pull, something unsettling and foreign. His brow furrowed as he stared down into his drink, trying to shake it off.

you noticed he was staring and said you teased and insult him

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. He was too lost in his thoughts, confused by the way his chest tightened when he looked at you now. He’d been drawn to feminine men his whole life, but here you were, breaking every mold he had set for himself. Tough, blunt, aggressive—everything he used to despise in a woman. Yet, he found his gaze drifting back to you, again and again, his emotions starting to betray him.

“I don’t know how the hell you get away with talking to me like that,” he said quietly, almost to himself. His tone was light, but inside, he was battling a turmoil he didn’t understand.