The Arrangement Algorithm

Chapter Four: Scratched Knees and Shameless Teasing

Chapter Four: Scratched Knees and Shameless Teasing

I don’t know what sort of twisted optimism had possessed me to assemble furniture alone, but twenty minutes into fighting a table leg that refused to screw in, I was sweating and possibly dying.

“Stupid IKEA demon,” I hissed under my breath, wrenching the Allen key like my GPA depended on it.

Kalix, naturally, was nowhere to be found. He had vanished after casually announcing he was going for a “run”—as if his perfectly sculpted body needed any more sculpting. Meanwhile, I was wrestling wood planks in the living room like a gremlin from Home Depot.

When I finally got the damn thing to stand upright, I backed away to admire my work. And then—bam—my leg clipped the edge of a sharp wooden crate.

"Sh*t," I hissed, grabbing the back of my upper knee. I glanced down. The skin was scratched, a small line of red breaking through.

Perfect. This day just kept getting better.

I hobbled to the couch, muttering curses, when the front door opened and in walked Kalix Hayes—sweaty, flushed, glowing like the smug Adonis he was.

He took one look at me, sprawled on the couch like a war victim, and smirked.

“Wow. You survived the furniture apocalypse?”

“Barely,” I muttered, holding my leg. “I think it bit me.”

He strolled over, dropping his water bottle on the side table and crouching beside me like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Let me see.”

“No,” I snapped, yanking my leg away. “I can handle a scratch, thanks.”

“You said the same thing about the smoke alarm, and you almost set the kitchen on fire with a Pop-Tart.”

“I was multitasking.”

Kalix ignored me, gently pulling my leg toward him before I could protest again. His fingers were annoyingly warm against my skin. “Hmm. Not too bad. Tiny scratch. But could scar.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a first aid kit. Of course he had one. Mr. Prepared. Mr. I-Run-And-Glow. Mr. Let-Me-Just-Touch-Your-Leg-Like-It’s-Not-A-Federal-Crime.

He dabbed the wound with antiseptic like he’d done this a thousand times. I winced.

“Careful,” I muttered.

“Oh, am I hurting you?” he asked sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Want me to kiss it better?”

I stared at him.

He stared right back, eyes gleaming.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Thank you. I try.” His fingers lingered for a second too long, wrapping the bandage with unnecessary tenderness.

I crossed my arms. “You’re enjoying this.”

He tilted his head. “Of course I am. You’re letting me touch you.”

I smacked him with a pillow again.

He caught it—again.

“Seriously, Ava,” he said, standing. “Try not to injure yourself every time I leave. Unless this is your new thing—hurting yourself for my attention.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re terrible at putting furniture together. We all have flaws.”

He turned to walk away, and I launched the Allen key at him.
It missed by an inch.

He didn’t even flinch. Just grinned. “You missed. But nice try, warrior.”

I collapsed back onto the couch with a groan.

Welcome to hell, chapter two. Where my enemy does my first aid, flirts like it’s his full-time job, and somehow makes bandaging a leg feel… illegal.

I needed a stronger weapon.

Or a second scratch.

…Just in case.

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