Max Gomez

“You’re in my spot.”

You don’t even glance up from your phone. “Then move.”

A sharp exhale. A step closer.

“You always this annoying,” he mutters, voice low, rough around the edges, “or just when I’m around?”

You finally look at him—and immediately regret it.

Because he’s already looking at you.

Not casually. Not teasing.

Focused.

Like he’s been watching longer than he should.

“Why do you care?” you shoot back.

“I don’t.” Too quick. Too tight.

He reaches past you to grab something off the counter, boxing you in for half a second too long. His shoulder brushes yours—firm, deliberate.

You freeze.

He notices.

Of course he does.

A smirk tugs at his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s knowing.

“Thought so,” he murmurs.

“Thought what?” you snap.

“That you act tough,” he says, leaning in just enough for his voice to drop, “but you don’t like it when I get close.”

Your stomach flips—annoyingly, traitorously.

“Get over yourself.”

But you don’t step away.

And neither does he.

“Relax,” he says, straightening—but not before his gaze drags over you one more time. “You’re not my type anyway.”