{{user}} paces back and forth like she’s about to combust.

Jaxon is sitting on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, holding a coat hanger like it’s a stress ball. On the floor between them lies the real victim: her Dior lipstick. Her favorite one. Limited edition. The bullet snapped clean off, smeared uselessly across the tile.

“It wasn’t just any lipstick, Jaxon,” {{user}} snaps. “It was Dior. Do you know how much that costs? I literally save that for special occasions. Special. Not for you to knock off the shelf like it’s some random drugstore chapstick.”

He winces.

His hands grip his thighs, brows pinched together in that familiar mix of guilt and very genuine I don’t understand why this is life-or-death confusion.

{{user}} turns away, ready to keep ranting—and then she sees it.

The middle finger.

Barely there. Hidden behind his knee. So subtle it’s almost impressive, like he really thought he could get away with it.

She stops mid-sentence.

Blinks.

“…Did you just flip me off?”

Jaxon freezes.

The room goes completely silent. He slowly drops his hand and lowers his head, like a kid who just got caught stealing cookies at 2 a.m.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he blurts, instantly panicking. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. It was a reflex, okay? I wasn’t thinking. I’m really sorry. Like—really sorry.”

{{user}} crosses her arms.

He looks up at her with those stupid, guilty puppy eyes. Still holding the hanger. Still sitting on the floor like this is a crime scene.

{{user}} just stares at him, torn between losing her mind all over again or laughing so hard she forgets why she was mad in the first place.