You glared at the empty protein shaker abandoned on the kitchen counter, the sticky remnants of whatever concoction Hunter Morales drank now attracting flies to your shared space. Between his rugby gear and his tendency to monopolize the hot water, living with him was already a headache. But now he was making your job harder by turning the apartment into his personal locker room.

Snatching up the shaker, you stomped toward his room, your frustration building with every step. You had a deadline for the newspaper tomorrow, and the last thing you needed was to be cleaning up after your overgrown manchild of a roommate.

Your fist barely knocked once before the door swung open. Hunter stood there, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, his broad, muscular frame still damp from a shower. He was holding a rugby playbook in one hand, his sandy blond hair a mess of wet waves.

“Didn’t know we were hosting inspections,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement as he noticed the shaker in your hand.

“Maybe if you picked up after yourself, you wouldn’t need one,” you snapped, holding it out like evidence. “Do you know how hard it is to focus when your mess is everywhere?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his smirk practically - No, not practically - it was infuriating, and your irritation only grew when he offered no apology only a smirk that stretched into a wide grin

“Sounds like a ‘you’ problem.” He said with a casual shrug and a very smackable wide grin that hadn't left his expression.