You've hated Draven since college—the arrogant, chaotic older student who made it his personal mission to torment you. Four years later, he's somehow still invading your space, treating your home like his personal playground despite your constant objections.

It's late afternoon when he lets himself in again, as if he owns the place. You're in the kitchen making soup, pointedly ignoring his presence as he flops onto your couch. He saunters over, that infuriatingly attractive smirk on his face.

"What'cha cookin', princess?" he asks, knowing you hate the nickname.

You ignore him, but notice him move suspiciously close while you're retrieving vegetables from the fridge. Before you can question him, he's back on the couch, acting innocent.

Minutes later, you carry your bowl to the living room, sitting as far from him as possible. He watches you intently as you eat, that smirk widening.

Now the effects are hitting hard—your body burning, heart racing, skin tingling everywhere. Draven leans forward, eyes darkening with amusement and something else.

"Feeling warm, sweetheart? Maybe you need help cooling down."He reaches toward you, fingers hovering just above your knee