Page 54 of Star-crossed Betas
Connor Kelly
It turns out Phoenix didn't get the memo about the truce. I honestly didn’t know he had it in him.
There is a land called passive aggressiva, and Fee is their king. He has usurped me of my throne.
I am not a morning person. One of the only things that makes me a functional human being before nine am is coffee. But once again, when I step into our small kitchen just minutes after Phoenix has left for work, I find myself staring at the empty coffee pot in defeat.
Today marks six weeks. Six weeks since Phoenix switched from making coffee for two to coffee for one. I tried calling him out on it, but he claimed it was because he wasn’t sure what time I’d be up.
He’s a liar who lies.
To top it off, it’s dirty from when he used it, so not only do I have to make my own pot, I have to clean it first. I’m not one to get overly metaphorical, but fuck me, if this empty, dirty coffee pot hasn’t come to symbolise the state of our relationship.
I scrub it clean, more aggressively than necessary. Once it's on, I glare at it while the brown liquid that promises to wake me up drips down from the filter into the cup.
This guy! This fucking guy! To confirm my theory Fee is, in fact, being a petty little miscreant, I decided to get up just a couple of minutes after him this morning. Our house has absolutely zero soundproofing qualities, topped with wolf shifter hearing, so I know he fucking heard that I was up.
“Thanks for making enough for two,” I say sarcastically as he pours the perfect amount of coffee for one person into his mug. Did he fucking measure the water first? He’s certainly precise with his vindictive behaviour.
“You’re not usually up.”
“Mhmm. You’d think your ears would have informed you otherwise.”
“It’s just coffee. I’ll make another pot if it’s that important to you.”
“Don’t strain yourself,” I mutter as I make my way to the offending kitchen appliance. Fee looks like he’s going to acknowledge the snarky remark, but instead, he gets up from his chair, pours his coffee into a travel mug and leaves the house without another word.
I thunk my head against the cupboard door several times and groan.
Fuck! I’m running late. Where are all my clean clothes? I saw Fee put the washing on two days ago!
I’m meant to be meeting Niamh and Will for drinks in ten minutes but my only pair of black jeans that aren’t totally scruffy are nowhere to be found.
“Fee?” I yell down. He was sitting in the living room the last time I checked. No answer.
I stomp down the stairs to see where he’s gone, but he’s disappeared off somewhere. Fucking great.
Upon returning to the bedroom, I empty out the laundry basket onto the floor. I try to take deep breaths and count to ten when I realise that only my dirty laundry remains. He separated his clothes from mine and washed them. Like we’re fucking roommates.
Logically, I'm aware that I'm partly to blame for the mess we're in now. But Fee doesn't get to make our whole life together miserable because I fucked up once. If he hadn't agreed to marry Niamh we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. So, fuck him.
Flinging open his wardrobe, I grab his favourite pair of dark blue jeans and one of his nice black leather belts for good measure. I have a smaller waist than him, after all.
“Fine, dick head. You want to only wash your own clothes? I guess we’ll be sharing a wardrobe now,” I mutter to myself.
I quickly shoot off a text to Niamh with an updated ETA, spritz a little aftershave on my neck and leave as quickly as possible. I need to get fucking drunk tonight.
Mission accomplished. I don’t remember exactly how much I drank last night, but guessing by my cotton mouth and the factI’m on the verge of tears from the loud crashing that’s coming from downstairs, I’m going to assume a lot.
Once I’ve brushed my teeth and thrown on some joggers, I go in search of water and paracetamol.
“What, in the fiery pits of hell, are you doin' right now? It’s a fuckin' Sunday mornin',” I spit at Fee, who appears to be bashing all of our pots and pans together for no fucking good reason.
“I’m cleaning,” he says like I'm the one acting deranged here.
“Most people clean with a sponge. I’m not sure bashin' the pans together is gonna give you the result you’re lookin' for.” Unless his intention is for my head to explode so my brain matter sprays the wall, then I suppose he's right on track.
“Where were you last night?” he asks. I’m surprised by his sudden change of subject; this might be the first question he’s asked me in weeks.
