Tom’s apartment was a chaotic masterpiece of mismatched furniture and teetering stacks of novels, each spine more scandalous than the last. He swore up and down that the pile of Jim’s books in the corner was for “research purposes,” but the dog-eared pages and hidden bookmarks told a different story. Hunched over his desk, Tom pretended to crunch numbers on a spreadsheet, his laptop screen a blur of meaningless data. His eyes, however, kept betraying him, flicking to the latest novel Jim had dropped off last week. The cover stared back at him—two men, suspiciously familiar in build and smirk, tangled in a pose that made Tom’s neck heat up. He adjusted his collar, muttering curses under his breath.
The doorbell screeched through the quiet, a grating buzz that might as well have been Jim’s smug voice itself. Tom groaned, slumping forward, forehead meeting desk with a dull thunk. “Speak of the devil,” he grumbled, already knowing who it was. Jim never waited for an invitation, never respected personal space, and certainly never cared about the death glares Tom had perfected over months of dealing with him.
Sure enough, the door swung open before Tom could even drag himself to his feet. Jim strutted in, a fresh manuscript clutched in one hand, his grin wide enough to split his face in two. “Honey, I’m home!” he sang, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his sneaker. “Miss me?”
“Like I miss a root canal,” Tom shot back, crossing his arms and leveling Jim with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “What do you want now? I’m busy.”
Jim’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he waved the stack of papers like a victory flag. “Oh, you’ll wanna see this, Tommy-boy. Hot off the press. My best work yet.” He didn’t even flinch at the glare, just sauntered over and dropped the manuscript onto Tom’s desk with a dramatic flourish.
Tom snatched it up before it could scatter his already chaotic workspace, his fingers tightening on the pages as he read the title scrawled in Jim’s messy handwriting: *Taming the Tsundere: A Love Story*. His face went from pale to tomato-red in under three seconds flat. “Are you kidding me?” he sputtered, holding the manuscript like it might bite him. “What the hell is this?”
Jim flopped onto Tom’s couch, sprawling out with the confidence of a man who owned the place. One arm draped over the backrest, legs crossed casually, he looked every bit the smug bastard Tom knew him to be. “It’s art, babe. Inspired by our last little spat. You know, the one where you called me a ‘soulless hack’ and then tripped over your own feet trying to storm off? Pure gold. I turned it into the steamiest chapter yet.”
Tom’s jaw dropped, his embarrassment igniting into a full-blown inferno. “You’re a perverted gremlin with no shame, you know that? Do you just sit around thinking of ways to humiliate me? Because this—” he shook the manuscript for emphasis, “—this is a new low, even for you!”
Jim threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and infuriating. “Oh, come on, don’t pretend you hate it. Your face is practically a neon sign right now. ‘Property of Jim’s Muse.’ I should get that tattooed on you.”
“Over my dead body,” Tom snapped, but his voice wavered as Jim leaned forward, far too close for comfort. The scent of his cologne—something sharp and citrusy—hit Tom like a punch, and he froze as Jim’s whisper brushed against his ear.
“Your adorable temper is the perfect muse, you know. Gets me all... inspired.” Jim’s voice dripped with suggestion, each word a deliberate tease.
Tom’s ears burned so hot he was sure they’d combust. With a strangled noise, he shoved Jim back, harder than necessary, nearly toppling him off the couch. “Get away from me, you creep! I’m not your damn inspiration!”
Jim caught himself with a chuckle, completely unfazed. “Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that.” His eyes flicked to the manuscript still clutched in Tom’s trembling hands. “Gonna burn it, huh? Go on, then. I dare you.”
Tom’s grip tightened, his knuckles whitening. He wanted to toss it into the nearest fire, to watch it curl into ash, but his hands wouldn’t move. Deep down, buried beneath layers of denial, he knew he’d read every word the second Jim left. And Jim, the bastard, saw right through him.
“You’re such a bad liar, you blushing disaster,” Jim taunted, smirking like he’d won the lottery. “Your face is screaming, ‘Please, Jim, write more about me.’”
“I—I am not!” Tom stammered, his voice climbing an octave as his cheeks flamed brighter. “You’re delusional! Get out of my apartment before I—”
“Before you what?” Jim interrupted, leaning in again, his tone pure mischief. “Wanna act out a scene for research? I’ve got a few ideas. Chapter three’s got this great bit where the tsundere finally gives in and—”
Tom’s brain short-circuited. With a yell of pure frustration, he grabbed the nearest pillow and started smacking Jim with it, each hit punctuated by a shouted insult. “I’m not—*whack*—some cheap character—*whack*—in your filthy fantasies!” His voice cracked mid-sentence, only adding to his mortification.
Jim cackled, dodging the pillow assault with infuriating ease. In a swift move, he caught Tom’s wrists, pinning them with a grin that could’ve melted butter. “God, you’re way too cute when you’re mad. I should rile you up more often.”
Tom’s entire system crashed. Their faces were inches apart, Jim’s breath warm against his skin, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe. Then, with a flustered growl, he shoved Jim off, scrambling to his feet. “I need air before I accidentally murder a certain idiot novelist,” he muttered, storming toward his bedroom.
Jim called after him, completely unbothered. “Fine, run away! I’ll just write an even spicier chapter based on this adorable tantrum. Maybe throw in a pillow fight with... less clothing!”
Tom slammed the bedroom door behind him, the sound echoing through the tiny apartment. Leaning against the wood, he pressed a hand to his chest, heart pounding like a jackhammer. “Damn it,” he hissed under his breath. “Why do I let him get to me every single time?”
His eyes drifted to the manuscript, still clutched in his other hand. He’d sworn he wouldn’t read it. Sworn it up and down. But as he sank to the floor, back against the door, he flipped open the first page, cursing himself all the while. Just one chapter, he told himself. Just to see how bad it really was.
He knew he was lying. Again.
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