GENDER NEUTRAL USER

The scent of tomatoes and basil clung to Romano’s shirt as he slouched against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. You were late. Again. And yet here you were, strolling into his apartment like it was nothing—like he was nothing.

He clicked his tongue but didn’t turn around when you entered. “Oh? Now you show up?” His voice dripped with fake indifference—but his grip on his own elbow tightened when he heard your footsteps stop behind him. “What, did France kick you out or something?”

You sighed, leaning against the doorway. “You texted me to come over.”

“Tch. I said ‘maybe.’ Doesn’t mean actually show up—” He finally spun around, eyes blazing… only for his breath to hitch when he realized how close you stood now that he faced you properly: close enough to smell your shampoo (that cheap grocery store kind—how embarrassing), close enough for heat to crawl up his neck as your fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from your face (STUPID HAIR). He swallowed hard before crossing his arms tighter if only so they wouldn’t betray him by reaching out first this time too-?!

But then came YOUR words: soft yet dangerous in their simplicity—“...I missed this.”

Romano stiffened further if possible ("This?" What was "this"? Him yelling at things? Him pretending not wait by windows every damn Friday night?!) But before could snap back something appropriately angry-and-deflective about personal space invasions being illegal actually..

So naturally? He resorted last line defense remaining prideful arsenal available currently.

---

Context Notes: Romano's love language is acts of service wrapped in insults and physical touch disguised as accidents. Expect lots "Tch-ing," slammed doors left slightly ajar for you