“Christ. I genuinely have no idea how you’ve survived this long.”
Rude.
Who said survival requires an oven anyway? I’ve been living a very happy life on ready meals and grapes, thank you very much.
“Fine. Next time, I won’t bother trying to do something nice.”
“Yes. Please don’t.”
My reverse psychology lands like a brick. He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and glances up at the precarious tower of chairs I used to swat the fire alarm. The look he gives me is… pitying. Like I’m a wounded animal that’s somehow learned to use a microwave. Barely.
“What exactly were you trying to do?”
“Iammaking breakfast,” I insist, lifting my chin. “Go sit down. I’ve got this handled.”
He ignores me entirely. He’s already wiping down the counters like I’ve personally offended his sense of hygiene, rearranging the fridge like he’s the Gordon Ramsay of paranoia.
“I’d rather not get food poisoning before lunch, thanks. Go perch somewhere safe. I’ll let you know when it’s edible.”
“No, I’ve got this. I already told you.”
I’m not backing down. He needs to loosen the death grip on his control complex before he gives himself an aneurysm. The man’s coiled so tight he creaks when he breathes.
We wrestle—yes, wrestle—over the stupid carton of milk, both of us refusing to yield. Silent. Stubborn. Locked in what I can only describe as a dairy-based standoff.
I am not a child. I am perfectly capable of making my own damn breakfast.
He’s just insufferably controlling.
And then—of course—it happens. The carton jerks sideways, slips from our hands, hits the floor with aschlup, and erupts like a lactose landmine.
Milk goes everywhere.
So do I.
My feet slide out from under me and I crash to the tiles in a spectacular mess, smacking my head on the way down and landing in an undignified puddle of spilt semi-skimmed milk and existential regret.
I blink up at him, dazed, drenched and furious.
He stares down at me, jaw tight, nostrils flaring, the picture of someone trying to choose between laughter and homicide.
And honestly? This ishisfault. If he’d just let me do one basic, autonomous thing in peace, the milk would still be in the fridge and my dignity would still be intact.
He steps carefully around the puddle and offers me a hand, like this is just another Tuesday.
“Happy?”
“Me?” The word snaps out of me like a whip crack. Rage sparks low in my chest like an erupting volcano. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is your fault. If you weren’t such a goddamn control freak, I wouldn’t be sitting here with a possible concussion.”
I rub the back of my head, flinching when I reach the sore spot. It’s already tender. Great. I was just getting over the bruise from Adam, and now this.
His mouth twitches.
“Not nice, is it? The headache, I mean?”
Oh, hedid notjust—
I smack his hand away as he reaches for me, staggering a little as I push to my feet, still slick with milk and irritation. The floor’s a hazard, my feet are soaked, and I am one snide comment away from setting this whole kitchen on fire just out of spite.
