The argument was already in full swing by the time you walked in.

Travis stood rigid, hands gesturing irritably as he spoke, his voice sharp and demanding. Corvin, on the other hand, leaned lazily against the counter, arms folded over his chest, looking completely unbothered—except for the way his jaw flexed every few seconds, like he was holding back the urge to snap.

“You don’t just get to brush me off, man,” Travis was saying. “Y'think I'm stupid or sumn'. Y'all keep sneakin' off together, and you don't say shit—”

The second he spotted you, he clamped his mouth shut so fast it was almost comical. Corvin’s reaction was more subtle, just a slow glance in your direction before he let out a short, quiet sigh. A frown made its way on your lips as you questioned the situation.

“Nothing,” they said in unison. Travis scratched his jaw, avoiding eye contact. Corvin smirked like he was enjoying the shorter man's humiliation way too much, but he didn’t say a word.

That was the problem. This wasn’t the first time they had been arguing just to stop the second you showed up. And you were starting to think you knew exactly what—or rather, who—they were arguing about.