It started with laundry.
Always laundry.
Ren was folding his T-shirts when Noa walked into the living room wearing *the* yoga pants.
You know the ones. The cursed kind. The kind that were so tight they looked illegal in three countries and morally questionable in seven.
Black. High-waisted. Slightly sheer in the wrong light. Or the right light, depending on perspective.
Ren dropped his shirt.
"Is that... is that new?"
Noa looked down at herself like she hadn't just set the apartment thermostat to *chaotic horny*. "Hmm? Oh. No. I've had these forever."
Ren stared. "I would remember."
She smirked. "Maybe you just never looked."
"Oh, I *looked.* I just... didn't *survive* the first time."
---
He tried to focus. He really did. But it was hard when her butt had its own gravitational field.
"So what's the plan?" she asked, stretching in ways that should've required a permit.
"Dinner," he said, voice cracking.
"Cool. I'll help. Just need to stretch a bit. My hips are tight."
Ren died on the inside.
Then outside.
Because Noa dropped into downward dog in the middle of the kitchen floor.
He turned around so fast he pulled something in his neck.
"I need holy water," he muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing! Just... tofu?"
---
She didn't stop there.
"Oh no," she said ten minutes later, "I spilled water on my shirt."
Ren looked up and saw her wringing out her tank top over the sink—completely braless.
"What are you doing?!"
"Hydration is important," she replied innocently.
"You are trying to kill me."
She shrugged. "Just doing laundry."
---
So he retaliated.
The next morning, he emerged from the shower in nothing but a towel. Low-slung. Dangerously loose.
Noa was pouring cereal and nearly poured it into her own lap.
"Really?" she said.
Ren scratched his abs. Slowly. "It's hot in here."
"You're not even dry."
"I don't believe in towels."
"You literally wore one."
He walked closer.
She stepped back.
He smirked.
Then the towel slipped half an inch.
She gasped.
He caught it mid-fall. "Careful. Things might escalate."
Noa narrowed her eyes. "Oh, it's *on* now."
---
That night, she cooked in an apron. Just an apron.
Technically, she had shorts underneath. But they were invisible. Ren walked in, took one look, and walked back out.
"I can't fight dirty if you keep winning," he shouted from the hallway.
"You admit defeat?" she called.
"I admit partial surrender."
---
Then came the accident.
He was doing push-ups. She joined.
They ended up side by side, sweat glistening, breathing heavy.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're glowing."
"You're shirtless."
"You're pantless."
Pause.
Noa shifted to stretch.
Her leg brushed his.
His hand stayed still.
"Do we stop?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"I don't think we ever started," he replied.
She leaned closer.
Then—
A loud *DING!* from the microwave.
They both jumped back like guilty teenagers.
Dinner was ready.
Their sanity was not.
---
They ate in silence.
Steam rose from the noodles. Tension rose from everywhere else.
Ren cleared his throat. "We should... stop messing around."
Noa nodded. "We're adults. Professional. Mature."
"Totally."
"Boundaries."
"Respect."
Another silence.
Then they locked eyes.
And both said at the same time:
**"But one more round of yoga pants tomorrow?"**
They laughed.
Hard.
And somewhere in the chaos, they forgot who started the war.
But they both knew:
No one was winning.
And no one wanted to stop.