You’re pacing back and forth like a storm about to break. Jaxon sits on the floor in front of you, holding a coat hanger like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Your Dior lipstick, your favorite, limited-edition shade, is now smeared on the floor, the bullet snapped clean off.

“It wasn’t just any lipstick, Jaxon! It was Dior! Do you even know how much that costs? I saved that for special occasions. Special! Not for you to knock off the shelf like it’s some drugstore chapstick!”

Jaxon flinches. His hands are clenched tightly on his thighs, his brows drawn together in that mix of guilt and “I-don’t-get-why-this-is-such-a-big-deal” confusion.

Then, just as you’re turning to rant again, you see it.

He gives you the middle finger. Subtly. Like behind his knee, almost like he thought you wouldn’t notice.

Your voice cuts off.

You blink. Then your jaw drops. “Did you just—”

Jaxon freezes.

The room goes dead silent. You stare him down, and he slowly lowers his head, like a kid caught stealing cookies from the jar.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he mutters, voice instantly softer, scrambling to undo the damage. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. It was a reflex, okay? I was just… I’m really sorry. Like, really.”

You cross your arms. He looks up at you with those stupid, guilty puppy eyes. Still holding the hanger.

You don’t know whether to yell again or burst out laughing.