Living together had always been a mess of laughter, teasing, and far too many accidental touches—his knee brushing yours on the couch, his hand lingering just a second too long when he handed you your mug, the way he leaned in close to whisper something that made your stomach flip. One night, sprawled across the couch in your pajamas, you nudged him with your foot, and he nudged back, smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Okay,” you said, trying to sound serious while your cheeks heated, “we need a rule. No dating. No… messing around. Nothing.” He leaned closer, voice low, teasing, eyes glinting like he was daring you to protest. “Fine. A pact,” he said, grinning, “six months. We keep each other in check.” When your hands met for the handshake, it lingered too long, and the air around you sizzled with something neither of you wanted to admit, because living together, flirty and touchy as you already were, made this so much harder than either of you expected.