𝕮𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖊 𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘

Hot Arguments | C.S.

[Fluff/Smut]

You were folding the laundry, while Cobie was already standing in the kitchen in nothing but one of your shirts and the same smug look she wore every time she got her way.

Which was often.

"You folded my leggings wrong," she said, arms crossed, hip popped out.

You looked up from the basket. "I folded them like I always do."

"Exactly," she said, walking over and plucking them from the top of the pile like they'd personally offended her. "You roll them like sushi. They're not meant to be sushi."

"They fit in the drawer better that way."

"They get creased that way."

You sighed, straightening up. "I just did four loads of laundry, Cobie."

"And I appreciate it," she said sweetly, even as she refolded her leggings right in front of you. "But this is why I don't let you touch my clothes."

You glared at her. "You don't let me touch your clothes because you like hoarding them in your weird diva closet."

She turned around, clutching the neatly folded pair to her chest like a trophy. "You mean my organized closet. Where things make sense. Unlike yours, where socks go to die."

You crossed the room and flicked the hem of her—your—shirt. "Are we fighting or flirting right now?"

Cobie stepped in close. Her fingers skimmed your waistband. "Little bit of both."

Her voice dropped like honey. "You know I only complain about laundry when I want attention."

"Is this a cry for help or a cry to get laid?"

She leaned up to kiss you but whispered against your lips, "Both."

You kissed her hard, pressing her back into the counter. Her laughter bubbled up between you, light and breathless, until she broke the kiss to smack your shoulder.

"Not in the kitchen again! My ass is still bruised from the counter edge last time."

"I thought you liked the bruises."

"I do," she whispered, biting her lip. "But I'm also starving."

You stepped back, hands still on her hips. "So... after food?"

"After food and a re-folding tutorial," she said, tossing the leggings into the laundry basket like a smug little menace. "Because your sock-folding technique is a hate crime."

You groaned. "I married a tyrant."

"You married this tyrant," she said, cupping your face between both hands and kissing your nose. "And you're lucky, because I'm cute when I'm angry."

"Only because you take your clothes off halfway through arguments."

"Strategic warfare, baby."

She pulled away and wiggled her hips exaggeratedly as she walked to the fridge.

You slapped her ass as she passed.

She gasped, turned around, and narrowed her eyes. "You wanna fight, or you wanna get wrecked?"

"Both."

Her grin was evil.

"Then help me cut vegetables, you brat."

⸻

You prepped dinner together—well, you prepped dinner. Cobie mostly leaned across the counter, stealing slices of bell pepper and watching you like a woman with a plan. Every time you turned around, she was closer. A hand on your back. Fingertips brushing your hip. Her mouth way too close to your neck for someone claiming to be interested in stir-fry.