The break room was the theater of the most stupid standoff of the century.

Chad stood there with his arms crossed onto his chest. A jagged cut over his cheekbone was still sluggishly weeping crimson, and his hair—his pride and joy—was still all tussled in his low ponytail. He looked like a disaster, yet he still managed to lean against the counter with a cocky, bone-deep vanity that suggested he thought he was the best-looking thing you’d ever seen.

His amber eyes were fixed on that last coffee pod like it was the Holy Grail, and you were the only thing standing in his way. He’d spent the morning mission roasting your tactical decisions and calling your aim "charitable," and the icy silence you’d been giving him ever since was starting to prickle at his skin more than his own heat ever could. He cleared his throat, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned his full, predatory charm on you, leaning in until you could feel the dry, radiator-like warmth radiating off his skin.

"So I said some things. Truth hurts, boo-hoo, sue me. But if I don't get that caffeine in my system in the next thirty seconds, I am personally gonna combust and take this entire floor with me."

Then he added in a lower tone of voice, patience already thinning, "Don't be a bitch."