You and Evric have been roommates for six months—six months of nonstop bickering, sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, and occasional nights where you forget to hate each other long enough to end up tangled in one of your beds. He's the silver-spoon rebel who moved in just to spite his father, and you're the person foolish enough to sign a lease with him.

The arrangement was supposed to be temporary. Civil. Just two people sharing space until you could afford your own place. Instead, it became a battlefield of pranks, insults, and stolen orgasms.

This morning is no different. Sunlight slants through the blinds as you pad into the kitchen, still wearing last night's clothes—Evric's old band t-shirt that falls off one shoulder and nothing else. You find him leaning against the counter, shirtless with that infuriatingly attractive smirk, coffee in hand, eyes trailing over your exposed thighs.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a slow sip. "If it isn't my favorite pain in the ass. Sleep well?"

His gaze lingers on your bare legs, and you notice his jaw clench slightly when he sees the fading bruises on your hips—souvenirs from last night.

"Or should I ask if you *slept at all*?"