I watch her from across the room, arms crossed, weight shifted to one leg - the classic {{user}} stance when she’s pissed. The worst part? I have no idea why.

“Are you mad?” I ask carefully.

She scoffs. “I’m not mad.”

Shit. That means I’m in trouble.

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. “{{user}}, come on. Just tell me what I did.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You should know.”

Right. Of course. I should just magically figure it out. I replay the last hour in my head. Dinner. Wine. I joked about something - was it about her driving? No, she laughed at that. Then I said -

Crap.

“Was it when I said you’re predictable?” I venture.

Her lips press into a thin line. Bingo.

“{{user}}, I didn’t mean it like that.” I say quickly. “I meant.. I know you. I know how you think, what you’ll say before you even say it.”

Her gaze softens for a split second before she masks it. “If you knew me so well, you wouldn’t have said it at all.”

I sigh, stepping closer. She doesn’t move away. That’s a good sign.

“You’re right.” I admit. “I should’ve known better.”

She studies me, then lets out a quiet breath. “I hate you.”

I grin. “You need me more.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. I reach for her hand, and this time, she doesn’t pull away.