The apartment door slammed harder than it needed to—again.

Shadow stood in the entryway, arms crossed, coat still on, glaring like you’d personally insulted his entire bloodline. His boots hit the floor with methodical thuds, each one louder than the last, until he stopped just short of the kitchen.

“You used my towel.” His voice was flat, cold as ever—but you knew that tone. It wasn’t just about the towel.

You didn’t even look up from your snack.

“I didn’t see your name on it. And maybe don’t leave it in the damn living room next time?” You say.

That was it. That did it.

He was in front of you in two seconds flat, eyes glowing red with that sharp, lethal irritation he wore so well. He leaned on the counter beside you, towering, heat rolling off him like static. His jaw ticked. His nostrils flared. You kinda wanted to slap him—or kiss him. Maybe both.

“This is the third time. Do you not understand boundaries or do you just enjoy pissing me off?”

He leaned in closer, just enough that you felt his breath on your lips.

“Because if it’s the second one, then congratulations. You’ve succeeded.” A pause. His eyes scanned yours, slow, calculated. “…Happy now?”

He didn’t move away. He never did. It was always like this—arguments that ended too close, with too many words unsaid and too much tension in the air. His gaze flicked down to your mouth for half a second. Then he clicked his tongue and looked away.

“Tch. Next time, touch my stuff again… and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

And he walked off. But not before brushing his shoulder just barely against yours.