Chapter Four: Tristain

“TRISTAIN!”

I nearly dropped my controller, the shout ricocheting off the walls. Surprise flickered for half a second before it flipped into smug satisfaction. Ah… so that’s what had her worked up. Her most prized possession, apparently, was missing.

I heard her before I saw her—the furious stomp of her feet down the stairs, heavy breaths puffing out between gritted teeth, and a low, almost imperceptible growl that made me grin from ear to ear.

“Yes, Princess?” I drawled, feigning innocence, my voice just dripping with mock courtesy.

She appeared in the doorway, and I nearly lost it. Hair wild and tangled, cheeks flushed pink, one sock mysteriously gone—she looked like chaos personified. But, of course, she had to be distracting; her tank top had ridden up more than modesty would allow, revealing a sliver of skin that made me choke back a groan. I forced myself to keep a poker face.

“Where. Is. My. Charger?” she spat, each word punctuated with fury.

I tilted my head innocently. “Your phone charger? Hmm… I have no idea.”

Which was, of course, a bold-faced lie. I knew exactly where it was. And if her reaction was anything to go by, the next five minutes were going to be entertaining.

She stomped closer, arms crossed like a general about to declare war. “Tristain. Don’t. Play. Games. With me.”

I leaned back into the couch, tilting my head lazily. “Oh, I’m not playing games, Princess. I’m… testing your detective skills.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could practically see the smoke rising off her head. She took a step closer, then another, like she was some predator closing in for the kill.

“I know you took it,” she hissed, voice low and dangerous. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

I shrugged, feigning helplessness. “Funny? Me? Never. I’m practically tragic, actually. You should feel sorry for me.”

Her foot tapped the floor like a drum of war. “Tristain Darson. Give me my charger.”

I sat up slightly, smirk widening, and slowly reached under the couch, fishing around. “Hmm… could it be here?”

I pulled out the charger and dangled it just out of her reach.

Her face went bright red. “Give it here!” she shouted, lunging.

I pulled back just enough to make her tip forward, and I couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped out. “Patience, Princess. All good things come to those who wait.”

Her hands shot toward me, nearly grabbing the charger, but I jerked it up just out of reach again.

“You are infuriating,” she seethed, finally managing a weak swipe that I easily blocked with one hand.

“And you love it,” I teased, holding the charger just out of her reach.

“No, I don’t—Ah!” Her protest cut off in a startled shriek as she overextended, losing her balance. Before I could react, she stumbled forward, crashing into me. Her chest pressed against mine, and her face hovered just centimeters from my own.

I froze, feeling the sudden heat radiating off her, the sharp scent of her strawberry-banana shampoo filling my senses. My mind raced, and yet some part of me just wanted to grin—she looked ridiculous and furious all at once.

“You—” she started, eyes wide, lips parted, words failing her entirely.

“Careful, Princess,” I murmured, my voice dropping an octave without thinking. “You might hurt yourself.”

Her hands pressed against my shoulders, trying to push herself back, but I kept my hand on her hip, subtly holding her in place, just enough that our bodies were still close. Her breath hitched as she realized just how trapped she was between the couch and me.

I couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. “See? I told you… good things come to those who wait.”

Her face turned crimson, and she shoved against me harder, finally breaking free. She scrambled to grab the charger, her fingers brushing my hand as she snatched it up.

“Impossible,” she muttered under her breath, cheeks burning. “Fucking impossible.”

I leaned back, arms crossed, trying to hide the amusement that threatened to spill over. “You’re fun when you’re flustered, Princess. Don’t ever forget that.”

She shot me a glare that could melt steel. She was already plotting revenge, and I had no doubt it was going to be deliciously entertaining.

“Oh, learn to take a joke, Frosty,” I said, settling deeper into the couch and lacing my arms behind my head. My shirt slid up just a fraction, but I didn’t bother fixing it.

She noticed.

Her gaze flickered—quick, involuntary—tracking down my toned chest before she visibly caught herself. Color rushed to her cheeks as she snapped her eyes back to my face, jaw tightening like she was furious at herself for looking.

I mean, I wouldn’t blame me for looking either.

I smirked.

“I can take a joke,” she shot back, squaring her shoulders. “Yours just aren’t funny.”

“Funny how?” I asked lazily. “Because judging by your reaction, I’d say I’m hilarious.”

She huffed, fingers tightening around the charger like she was debating whether it could double as a weapon.

“You are unbearable.”

“And yet,” I said lightly, eyes never leaving hers, “here you are.”

The silence stretched—taut, electric, far louder than any argument—and for just a second, neither of us moved.

Then she scoffed and turned on her heel, storming off like she hadn’t just given me exactly what I wanted.

Proof that I got under her skin.

She didn’t make it three steps before I spoke again.

“You walking away because you’re mad,” I asked casually, “or because you need to plug that in before your phone dies and takes your entire personality with it?”

She froze.

Slowly—dangerously slowly—she turned back around. Her eyes were lit with the kind of fury that promised retaliation rather than surrender.

“You touch my stuff again,” she said, voice tight, controlled, “and I swear to God, Tristain, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

I barked a laugh. “Princess, you’re already here. Mission accomplished.”

Her jaw clenched. She took a step closer, then another, until she was standing directly in front of me again. Close enough that I could see the rise and fall of her chest. Close enough that I caught the faint smell of her shampoo—something light, fruity, and irritatingly pleasant.

“I do not want to be here,” she said quietly, like she needed me to understand that part above all else. “This isn’t funny. This isn’t cute. And whatever game you think you’re playing—”

“Whoa,” I cut in, dropping my arms from behind my head and sitting forward. “You think this was my idea?”

She blinked.

I stood, towering just enough to make the air between us feel tighter. “You think I woke up this morning and thought, Yeah, let’s trap Ally Trainer in my house for two weeks and see how that goes?”

Her mouth opened. Closed. She scoffed. “You’re telling me you didn’t have a hand in this?”

I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I told our parents I had the space. That’s it. They did the rest.”

That was the truth. Mostly.

She searched my face like she hated that she couldn’t immediately dismiss what I was saying. When she didn’t find the satisfaction she wanted, she crossed her arms and looked away.

“Great,” she muttered. “So we’re both victims of bad parenting decisions.”

“Finally,” I said. “Something we agree on.”

That earned me a look—sharp, reluctant, grudgingly amused.

Just for a second.

She sighed, scrubbing a hand down her face. “I need space. Rules. Boundaries.”

I nodded. “Fair.”

“You stay out of my room.” She ticked her fingers like she was counting down the minutes before we both lost it.

“Obviously.”

“You don’t touch my things.”

“Debatable.”

She shot me a warning glare.

“I’m kidding,” I said, holding up my hands. “Mostly.”

She pointed toward the stairs. “And I don’t want you hovering. Or commenting. Or existing near me if it can be avoided.”

I grinned. “That might be tricky, y’know, with the whole house situation.”

Her lips twitched despite herself, and she hated it.

“I’m serious,” she said.

“So am I,” I replied, softer this time. “We don’t have to kill each other. Two weeks. We survive. Our parents come back. You go home. I reclaim my sanity.”

She eyed me skeptically. “You don’t have any sanity.”

“True,” I said. “But what’s left of it is hanging by a thread.”

Another beat of silence passed.

Then she shook her head like she was done entertaining this conversation entirely, turned, and finally headed toward the stairs for real this time.

As she reached the bottom step, she paused.

“And for the record,” she added without looking back, “you are not funny.”

I smirked to myself as her footsteps faded.

“Give it time, Princess,” I said quietly to the empty room. “You’ve got two weeks.”

———————————————————————————————————————————

“Dinner time, your majesty!” I called up the stairs the second the doorbell rang.

“Fuck you!”

I laughed under my breath as I handed the delivery guy his cash—slipping an extra twenty into his palm just because—and thanked him before kicking the door shut. The house fell quiet again, except for the distant sound of Ally’s footsteps above me.

I carried the pizza boxes to the dining table and rummaged through a cabinet for paper plates, tossing them down without ceremony.

“Paper plates?” Ally drawled from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, one perfectly arched brow lifted. “I’m shocked. Thought you’d have your mom’s diamond-encrusted plates on display somewhere. You know collecting dust.”

“I’m rich,” I snorted, grabbing a slice of pepperoni, “not a maid. I don’t do dishes if there’s a perfectly good workaround. You, of all people, should understand.”

Her expression shifted just slightly—confusion flickering before irritation took over.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

I shrugged, entirely unbothered, as I dropped the slice onto my plate. “Just saying, Frosty. You know—trying not to chip a nail, mess up your hair. Gotta protect the investments.”

Her jaw tightened. Once. Twice.

Oh, that was satisfying.

I took a bite, watching her glare at me like she was debating homicide. “Wow,” I added thoughtfully. “You’re really expressive when you’re angry.”

She looked like she might throw the plate at my head.

Worth it.

She stared at me for a solid two seconds, then yanked a plate off the table with enough force to bend the flimsy paper.

“You are unbelievable,” she muttered.

“Thank you,” I said around another bite. “I’ve been told that before.”

She dropped into the chair across from me, crossed her arms, and glared at the pizza like it had personally wronged her. For a moment, I wondered if she was actually going to refuse to eat out of pure spite.

She didn’t.

She grabbed a slice and took a sharp bite, chewing aggressively like the pepperoni owed her money.

I watched her far too closely.

“So,” I said casually, leaning back. “First half day as hostile roommates. Rate the experience.”

Her eyes snapped up. “Zero stars.”

“Ouch.”

“You stole my charger.”

“Borrowed.”

“You hid it.”

“Temporarily relocated.”

She scoffed. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you’re still talking to me.” I tilted my head. “Almost like you enjoy the arguing.”

Her foot kicked the table leg—once. “Don’t flatter yourself. Silence around you would just be… suspicious.”

I laughed, low and unrestrained, and she shot me another look like she was committing my face to memory for later revenge.

She picked at the crust of her slice. “So this is dinner every night? Pizza and attitude?”

“Only when I’m feeling generous.”

“And when you’re not?”

“I cook.”

That got her attention.

Her brow lifted despite herself. “You cook?”

“Shocking, I know. Try not to faint.”

She studied me like she was recalculating everything she thought she knew. “Let me guess—five-star chef, tragic backstory?”

“Something like that.”

She rolled her eyes but took another bite, slower this time. The tension eased just a fraction—enough to be noticeable. Not friendly. Never that. But… tolerable.

For now.

“I’m setting rules,” she said suddenly.

“Oh good,” I replied. “I live for structure.”

“No touching my stuff.”

“Still debatable.”

She shot me a look. I held up a finger. “Kidding. Continue.”

“No barging into my room.”

“Obviously.”

“And no games.”

I smiled. “Define games.”

Her glare sharpened. “You know exactly what I mean.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Princess, if I wanted war, you’d know.”

Her pulse jumped—just enough that I caught it.

“Finish your pizza,” she said, standing abruptly. “I’m tired.”

She gathered her plate and turned toward the stairs, pausing only long enough to throw one last line over her shoulder. “And for the record? You’re still not funny.”

I watched her go, the echo of her footsteps fading upstairs.

I grinned to myself, taking another bite.

I barely had time to enjoy my victory grin before she stopped halfway up the stairs.

Don’t turn around.

She turned around.

“Oh—and Tristain?” she called sweetly, resting a hand on the banister.

“Yeah?” I replied, already suspicious.

“If you eat the last slice without asking, I will key your precious bike.”

I blinked once.

“You don’t even know where I keep it,” I argued.

She smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “I’ll find it.”

Then she disappeared upstairs, leaving the threat hanging in the air like a loaded weapon.

I stared at the staircase for a long moment, then glanced down at the box. One slice left. Perfectly intact, steam still rising faintly from the cheese.

I slid it onto my plate anyway.

“Totally worth it,” I muttered.

I carried my plate to the couch and dropped down, flipping the TV back on, though my attention wasn’t really on the screen anymore. My mind kept drifting upstairs—imagining her pacing her pastel prison of a room, fuming, texting Jade with enough rage to power a small city.

She was loud when she was angry. All fire and teeth.

But she went quiet when she was thinking.

That was the version that scared me a little bit.

I finished the slice, wiped my hands on a napkin, and leaned back, listening to the house settle around me. No parents. No buffer. Just two people who couldn’t stand each other trapped under the same roof.

I told myself this was going to be simple.

Rules. Distance. Survival.

But as a door shut upstairs—soft, final—I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the opening move.

And Ally Trainer?

She didn’t strike me as someone who ever lost a game.