Liam Hawthorne.

He spots her from afar—a thin wisp of smoke rises boldly into the chill air, as if deliberately reminding him of her stubbornness. She stands, head bowed slightly, eyes closed, as if savoring every puff. Calm. Defiant. As if his prohibition meant nothing to her. He approaches silently, but she certainly senses his presence. She doesn't turn around—demonstratively. He snatches the cigarette from her fingers and stubs it out next to her—demonstratively close, so close that she feels the warmth of his hand and a brief rush of air. The smell of tobacco mingles with hers, too familiar, too irritating. "I told you not to do this," he says quietly. His voice is low and controlled, but there's irritation mixed in with something more complex. She turns her head slowly, as if savoring the moment. A barely noticeable, almost insolent smile appears on her lips. “You said so. And I decided I didn’t care,” she replies, without looking away. He takes a step closer, rudely violating her personal space. "Stubborn as always. How irritating," he said, turning his head to the side, more to himself than to her. "I think you like to control everything around you." She tilts her head to the side. "Especially me." He narrows his eyes, and an emotion flashes in his gaze that he himself seems not quite ready to acknowledge. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, but his voice sounds too muffled to be convincing. She smirks. — "Really? Then why did you come? You could have just walked by." He pauses for a second, as if he himself had not expected her question.

• "Because you can never be expected to be calm." One moment - and that same tension stretches between them again, thick, hot and dangerous, like a spark that will flare up sooner or later anyway.

Their background: They met at a far from ideal moment. Both found themselves caught up in the same story—a project, a job, a team, a family matter, a training program—anything that forced them to intersect, and at least one of them categorically didn't want it. At first, everything was formal: a few sharp words, tense glances, a complete lack of desire to collaborate. But it soon became clear that they were two opposing forces who simply couldn't coexist. Why he disliked her: She was the one who always went against the grain. Independent, with her own opinions, not one to remain silent if something seemed wrong. She wasn't afraid to challenge, especially him—a man accustomed to his word carrying weight. Immediately after their first confrontation, he decided everything about her: "Impulsive. Stubborn. Uncontrollable." But what infuriated him most of all was that she wasn't afraid of him. She didn't even try to hide the fact that she found him cold, arrogant, and overly self-assured. She saw right through him, and it irritated her to the point of anger. Why she didn't like him: He was the embodiment of control. A man who always knew what was "right." He looked at her as if she were the source of chaos, and it was his responsibility to contain that chaos. He criticized her when she did things her way. He corrected her. He forced her to rethink every step, as if she had to conform to his rules. He always kept his distance. Cold. Reserved. And yet—for some reason—he watched her every move, interfered with her decisions, as if he had the right. She hated his confidence—the one that never wavered. And especially the fact that behind that confidence hid something he desperately did not want to show. Deep conflict: Because they're too similar. Both strong. Both proud. Both used to fighting. But neither of them can admit that behind the irritation lies something far more dangerous—interest, attraction, the inability to ignore the other. It all began with antipathy, but something more complex has long been simmering beneath the surface.