The second the door shut, Daemon knew this was going to end badly.

One room. One bed. Three hours until the party.

And Archer Gray.

“Of all the fucking people,” Daemon muttered, dropping his bag with a thud.

Archer leaned back against the dresser like he’d just been handed front row seats to a show. “Aww, you missed me.”

Daemon shot him a look that could’ve cut glass. “I’d rather take a slapshot to the face.”

“Careful,” Archer said, pushing off the dresser and stepping closer, that lazy grin firmly in place. “You keep talking like that, people might think you’re obsessed with me.”

Daemon let out a short, sharp laugh. “You’re not that interesting.”

“Yeah?” Archer tilted his head, eyes flicking over him in a way that was way too deliberate. “Then why do you always look like you want to fight me or fuck me?”

Silence hit the room like a punch.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. “You’ve got a real talent for saying the dumbest shit possible.”

Archer didn’t back off. If anything, he stepped closer. “And you’ve got a real talent for not denying it.”

That did it.

Daemon grabbed the front of Archer’s shirt and shoved him back a step, hard. “Keep running your mouth and see what happens.”

Archer stumbled slightly, then just laughed under his breath. Not nervous. Not even close.

“Finally,” he said, voice lower now. “There he is.”

Daemon frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Archer said, prying Daemon’s hand off his shirt but not moving away, “I like you better like this. Honest.”

“I’m always honest.”

“No,” Archer shot back instantly. “You’re always pissed. Different thing.”

Daemon’s temper flared, hot and immediate. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Maybe not,” Archer said, shrugging. “But I know you don’t actually hate me as much as you pretend to.”

Daemon shoved him again, harder this time. “You’re fucking delusional.”