Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “Don’t tell me what to do.”

            He sighs. “I’ll make room for the plutonium in the cheese drawer.”

            I laugh, and realize that it’s the first time I’ve done it in hours. Which, in turn, makes me sigh. “It’s just . . . Sean is being a total dick. Again.”

            His expression darkens with understanding. “What’d he do?”

            “The usual. That deco project I told you about? I was explaining this really cool idea about how to fix it, but he only let me talk for half a minute before telling me why it wouldn’t work.” I fiddle with the magnetron, then start reassembling the oven. The second both my hands are occupied, a strand of hair decides to fall into my left eye. I blow it away. “Thing is, I’d already considered all of his objections and found solutions. But did he let me continue? Nope. So now we’re going with a much-less-elegant method, and . . .” I trail off. At this point, Liam gets two to four Sean-related rants a week from me. The least I can do is keep them short. “Anyway. Sorry for being defensive.”

            “Mara. You should report him.”

            “I know. It’s just . . . this constantly belittling behavior is so hard to prove, and . . .” I shrug—bad idea, since my hair is now back in my eyes. I feel a little stuck. A lot stuck.

            “So, what’s Sean’s last name?” Liam asks.

            “Why?”

            “Just curious.” He tries to sound casual, but he’s so bad at it. He’s clearly the worst liar in the world—how did he get through law school? It makes me smile every time.

            “You need to practice,” I say, pointing my screwdriver at him.

            “Practice?”

            “Practice telling . . .”

            My voice trails off. Because Liam is reaching up to brush his fingers against my cheekbone, a faint smile on his lips. My brain short-circuits. What—? Did he—?

            Oh. Oh. My hair. My lost, wayward strand of hair. He tucked it behind my ear. He’s just being nice and helping his ginger klutz roommate, who in turn is having a major brain fart. Classy, Mara. Very classy.

            “Practice telling what?” he asks, still staring at the shell of my ear. It’s probably misshapen, and I never even knew it.

            “Nothing. Lies. I . . .” I clear my throat. Get it together, Floyd. “Hey, you know what?” I try to keep my tone light. Change the topic. “The beginning of this cohabitation was an absolute nightmare, but I like this a lot.”

            “This?”

            “This thing.” I begin to screw in the back plate of the microwave. “Where we chat without throwing chairs at each other and you offhandedly ask for the last names of dudes who are mean to me with the obvious idea of committing unsanctioned acts of vigilante justice against them.”

            “That’s not what I—”

            I lift my eyebrow. He blushes and looks away.

            “Anyway, I like this much better. Being friends, I guess.”

            He glares at me. “I’m not your friend.”

            “Oh.” I almost recoil. Almost. “Oh. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that—”

            “The other night Eileen gave Bernie a rose, and you said that it was a good move. That’s not something I can accept from a friend.”

            I burst out laughing. “Come on, he’s cute. He is a dog trainer. He likes K-pop!”

            “See, this? The reason you’re my sworn enemy.” He shakes his head at me, and I laugh harder, and then my laughter dies down and for a second we’re just smiling at each other and an unfamiliar liquid warmth spills inside me.

            “I am positive Helena would have rooted for Bernie.”

            He snorts. “You say it like it’s an endorsement. Like she didn’t constantly try to set me up with random people I cared nothing for.”

            “She did the same with me!”