WebNovels

Chapter 9 - Domestic Wars

Living together was…educational.

If there were a manual for surviving under one roof with Callisto Maxim, it would start with:

Abandon logic.

Prepare patience.

Hide your towel.

Lesson One: Towels

I stepped out of the bathroom, hair dripping, and reached for my towel.

Only to find his aesthetic navy one hanging on my hook.

"Really?" I muttered.

"You're starting a towel war?"

He appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled, hair slightly damp.

"I don't see a problem. It's the most efficient towel placement."

"Efficient?" I scoffed. "That's. My. Towel."

"And that's my shower," he countered, maddeningly calm.

"The universe agrees."

"The universe is biased in your favor," I shot back.

He gave that faint smirk.

"Maybe. Or maybe you're overthinking it, love."

I froze.

Love again?

It shouldn't mean anything, but my pulse stuttered anyway.

"Stop calling me that," I said, waving him off. "It's dangerous."

"Dangerous?" he repeated. "You're the one holding my towel hostage."

"Temporarily borrowing,"

I corrected, grabbing it full force.

"Sure. Temporarily borrowing."

He shook his head, still amused.

Lesson Two: Chores

Later, I found him in the kitchen, sleeves still rolled, sponge in one hand and dish towel in the other.

"Don't tell me you're doing dishes again," I said, leaning on the counter.

"I thought it would be fun," he said.

"Fun," I repeated flatly. "We've officially crossed into sitcom territory."

"Possibly," he said, rinsing a plate with surgical precision.

"You're the star who complains about her co-star's efficiency."

I snorted. "Co-star? You wish."

"Of course," he said smoothly. "Otherwise, who would argue about towel hooks and mug alignment?"

"You're unbearable," I said, laughing despite myself.

"And you're delightfully argumentative," he replied, tossing me a towel.

"See? Balance."

Balance. Right.

That's what we were.

Equal parts chaos and control.

Lesson Three: Kitchen Collisions

Later, I walked through the living room in a towel, forgetting he was home.

"Hi," I muttered, tightening the towel.

He didn't blink.

"You're fully clothed under that, right?"

"Do you want proof?"

"No, thank you. Just… pointing out why people knock."

"Exactly," I said.

"Which now includes announcing before walking half-dressed through the house."

He smirked faintly. "And you're entertaining, love."

That stupid endearment again.

My stomach flipped.

The domestic battles somehow escalate.

He tried making the bed once and somehow tied the sheets into a perfect knot.

"Seriously?" I asked. "You made it worse."

"Worse?" he said, feigning offense. "This is modern art."

"Modern art? It looks like the bed fought back."

He tilted his head. "Attack or masterpiece, you decide."

I crossed my arms, trying not to smile. "Ridiculous."

"And you're pretending not to be amused," he said, tossing me a pillow.

By evening, our playful tension became a full-blown competition.

Who would win the domestic battlefield?

He chopped vegetables with surgical precision while I roam on the counter, pretending to supervise.

"You call that slicing?" I asked.

"It's a massacre."

"I call it controlled efficiency," he said smoothly.

"Controlled efficiency? You're butchering carrots."

He slid the knife aside, eyes glinting.

"And you call yourself a lawyer. Maybe you need practice, love."

I ignored how the word lingered.

"You're enjoying this too much."

"Enjoyment's part of the job description," he said, brushing past me to grab a bowl.

Accidental collisions were inevitable.

The kitchen wasn't big enough for two people and all that tension.

Once, I opened the pantry and nearly collided with him inside.

We froze.

"You didn't knock," I said.

"I didn't think anyone was in here."

"And I didn't think you were in here," I retorted, clutching the chips like a shield.

He smirked, utterly unbothered. "Timing."

"Fate implies I like it," I said.

"Right. Can't have that."

By night, every topic,

The laundry, dishes, misfolded shirts were exhausted.

The couch became neutral territory.

"You didn't fold the shirts properly," I pointed out.

"Folding's subjective," he said. "Besides, you left your clothes on the floor."

I scowled. "You're impossible."

"And you," he said lightly, brushing a strand of hair from my face, "seem to enjoy arguing."

I froze. It was casual, nothing more, but something in me faltered.

I just laughed it off.

"You're using that trick again."

"Which one?"

"Charm mixed with physical contact to win."

Seems like the 'No touching' rule was officially out of the clause now.

He grinned. "Strategic persuasion."

I threw a cushion at him.

He caught it effortlessly.

Later, passing the living room, I caught him on the couch, tablet on one knee, sleeves rolled.

The lamp traced the sharp line of his jaw, the faint crease of concentration between his brows.

Something in my chest went still.

He looked calm. Comfortable

And for the first time, so did I.

I'd expected this arrangement to feel temporary, transactional, sterile.

Instead, it was noisy, messy, a little too warm.

And somehow… safe.

I smiled to myself. "You're ridiculous, Alexandra," I whispered.

Tomorrow, I'd reclaim my towel and win the battle of the couch.

But tonight,

Tonight, I let him have the last smirk.

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