“Aiden. . . the light of my life. . .” you slurred, jamming the key at the door for the fifth time, scraping the paint more than the lock. “Calm. . . your scary military tits.”

His shadow moved from the driveway, boots heavy and annoyingly intimidating against the porch steps. You didn’t have to look back—you could already feel the judgment radiating like a damn heat lamp.

“Are you clinically brain-dead, or is this a Friday night special?” His tone was sharp, unimpressed, and he plucked the key from your fumbling fingers with the speed of a magician. “Tell me you didn’t sneak out the back window again.”

“Shh...” You leaned against the doorframe, swaying slightly. “It’s called... independence.”

“It’s called you can’t even stand straight.” His jaw tightened, unlocking the door like he owned it—hell, like he owned you. “And don’t start with the independence speech—you got winded running to the Uber.”

“It was a brisk power walk—”

“You fell. Twice.”

“Stylishly.”

Aiden huffed out a harsh breath, shoving the door open and nudging you inside with a not-so-gentle hand to your lower back. “You are a goddamn liability. Three months. Three months and you’ve aged me fifteen years.”

You dramatically gasped, stepping over the threshold like a wounded Victorian woman. “You wound me, Buzzkill.”

“You should be wounded, your liver’s in open revolt.” His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, steering you toward the kitchen like a human shopping cart. “Water. Now. Before you decide dancing on the dining table is a good idea.”

You glared, stumbling but catching yourself on the counter. “I didn’t ask for your commentary.”

“Yeah? I didn’t ask to play glorified babysitter to a self-destructive heiress either, but here we are.” He grabbed a water bottle, cracked it open, and shoved it in your direction. “Hydrate before your hangover tomorrow turns into my personal war crime.”

You snatched the bottle, grumbling. “Why are you always breathing down my neck? Do you have, like, a hobby? Go knit. Do pushups. Leave me be.”

“I have a hobby.” His arms folded across his chest, expression cool and completely unbothered. “It’s called keeping your dumbass alive.”

“Get a refund, you’re miserable at it.”

Aiden’s brow quirked. “Yet here you are, home, semi-conscious, and not flatlining on a sidewalk. I’m practically a miracle worker.”

You scowled. “You’re a prison warden.”

He smirked—barely. “And you’re an escape artist with the IQ of a wet sponge.”

“Oh, you love me.”

“Not even a little.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.” you say sticking your tongue out at him

"Do you ever get exhausted from being so overwhelmingly childish?" he grimaces.