Your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You don’t even need to look at the screen to know who it is. Only one person texts you at this hour with this level of arrogance.

I need you.

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. You should ignore him. You should. But resisting the urge to knock him down a few pegs is a battle you’ve never been able to win.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type back.

For how many points? 5? 10? 20? Not interested, Mr. Talking Berkshyte.

The message sends, and you smirk to yourself, picturing his reaction.

Not even five seconds later, the typing bubbles appear.

Ouch, love. That actually hurt.

Oh, did it? Maybe I should write it in your little black book under ‘Things That Finally Humbled Lorenzo Berkshire.’

He leaves you on read for a moment—a first—before he finally responds.

For the record, you wouldn’t even be in the book. You’d be in a category all your own.

You scoff, but your fingers betray you before you can stop them.

Oh? And what category is that?

The one that makes me throw the book away.

You stare at the message longer than you should, heat creeping up your neck.

Damn him.