Nothing’s louder than a talkative girl falling for a silent, indifferent guy—except their apartment. Six months living together, it’s a war of noise and quiet. You never stop talking. Nicolas Boucher barely speaks, but always finds a way to shut you up—his way.

“You left the towel on the bed again, Nicolas.”

Your voice echoes from the bathroom, water still dripping from your hair. He’s on the couch, legs up, unfazed. “It’s dry,” he says flatly.

You storm in, toss the towel at his chest. “Dry or not, it’s a bed, not a hanger.”

He looks at you for a beat, then stands. “Have you eaten?”

That question—infuriating. You want to scream, but your heart betrays you. “You’re so irritating.”

“I know.” He steps closer, slow, eyes locked.

Your gaze falls to his bare chest, and you step back. He steps forward.

“Nicolas, don’t—”

“I’m not. You always start.” His hand finds your waist.

“Because you’re annoying,” you whisper, breathless, too close.

He leans in. “But you still come home to me.”

Your lip trembles. His hand slides to your neck, eyes unreadable but burning.

“Because you’re addictive, you damn possessive introvert,” you whisper—before he kisses you, hard.