Jude stared at the aggressive woman blocking his path. He took a deep breath, forcing the violent rage back down his throat. His icy gaze bypassed Sharon and locked directly onto Blaire, silently demanding she fix this disaster.

Blaire's scalp prickled under his stare. She scrambled out from behind her mother's arm, her voice stammering in panic. "Mom, wait, misunderstanding! This is... this is my roommate, Jude."

Sharon's eyes widened. She slowly looked Jude up and down, her gaze lingering critically on his mud-splattered shoes and his loosened, damp tie. She let out a loud, disdainful scoff. "So, this is him."

Drawing on years of elite upbringing, Jude forced his facial muscles to relax into a stiff, robotic mask of politeness. "Hello. I am Jude."

Blaire dropped to her knees, snatched her keys off the floor, and shoved them into the door lock. She pushed the door open, desperate to escape the suffocating tension of the hallway. "Come in, come in!"

The moment Sharon stepped inside, she transformed into a health inspector. She ran her finger along the top of the cheap IKEA TV stand, checking for dust. She looked at the basic furniture and sneered openly.

Jude stood rigidly in the entryway. He toed off his ruined leather shoes. His skin crawled. He wanted nothing more than to stand under a boiling hot shower for an hour, but he was trapped. He watched the mother-daughter duo with cold, calculating eyes.

Sharon sat down heavily on the sofa. She crossed her arms and aimed her interrogation directly at Jude. "Blaire tells me you're in sales. How much do you actually bring home a month?"

Jude walked over to the single armchair and sat down. Even in this cheap apartment, with a ruined suit, he crossed his long legs with the inherent dominance of a king on a throne. "Base salary plus commission. It barely covers the mortgage."

Sharon's lip curled in absolute disgust. "You're paying a mortgage on a dump with no working elevator? Your financial situation is pathetic. How do you plan to support a family?"

Blaire, who was pouring water in the kitchen, heard the insult. Her stomach dropped. She rushed out, holding a glass of water, trying to extinguish the fire. "Mom, stop! We are just roommates! We split everything fifty-fifty!"

Sharon glared at her daughter. "Even as a roommate, it's unacceptable. You lie down with dogs, you get fleas. Don't let a loser like this drag you down."

Jude's hands gripped the armrests of his chair. His knuckles turned bone-white. The veins on the back of his hands bulged. In his entire thirty years of life, no one had ever dared call him a loser.

To shut the woman up and end the torture, Jude fired back, his voice dripping with frost. "You don't need to worry. I have absolutely zero inappropriate thoughts about your daughter."

That sentence was the wrong move. Sharon took it as a direct insult to Blaire's worth. She exploded, launching into a rapid-fire verbal assault, tearing into Jude's attitude and lack of manners. Jude fired back with cold, clipped logic.

Blaire was trapped in the crossfire, her anxiety spiking so high she felt dizzy. "Dinner is ready!" she yelled, desperately cutting off the argument.

The three of them relocated to the tiny dining table. The atmosphere was toxic. Sharon picked at the deli meat Blaire had bought, complaining about the sodium. Jude mechanically chewed a piece of lettuce, staring blankly at the wall.

Desperate to smooth things over, Blaire stood up and hurried into the kitchen to grab the clam chowder she had just heated on the stove.

She grabbed the hot ceramic bowl. As she pivoted back toward the dining area, her heel caught a slick patch of water she had spilled earlier near the sink.

Blaire let out a sharp, terrified gasp. Her feet flew out from under her. Her center of gravity collapsed, and she pitched forward, falling directly toward Jude's chair.

Jude saw the shadow falling toward him. The alarm bells in his brain shrieked. His haphephobia flared with violent intensity.

He reacted purely on survival instinct, shoving his chair backward to escape the physical contact.

But the dining area was too small. The back of his chair hit the wall. He was trapped.

Blaire hit the floor hard. The bowl tipped forward in her hands.

A massive wave of scalding hot, thick clam chowder splashed directly onto Jude's chest, soaking his pristine white shirt and ruining his trousers.

Blaire's wrist slammed against the sharp corner of the table. A blinding flash of pain shot up her arm. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes.

Jude shot up from his chair like he had been electrocuted. He looked down at his chest. The thick, creamy soup clung to his skin, radiating a sickening, fishy smell. His germaphobia and touch-aversion collided in a catastrophic mental breakdown.

He looked down at Blaire, who was crumpled on the floor, clutching her wrist. There was no pity in his eyes. There was only pure, unadulterated disgust.

In his mind, this was the ultimate gold-digger move. A fake fall to force physical intimacy and play the victim.

Jude's jaw locked. His voice was a lethal, vibrating hiss. "Your pathetic attempts to seduce me are absolutely disgusting."

The word disgusting hung in the air, a physical blow that struck Blaire squarely in the chest. The blood drained from her face. She forgot about the throbbing pain in her wrist, staring up at him in total shock.

Sharon let out an ear-piercing shriek. She shoved her chair back, rushed around the table, and hauled Blaire off the floor. She pointed a trembling, furious finger at Jude's back. "What kind of a man are you? ! She tripped! You didn't even try to catch her!"

Jude didn't hear a word. He spun around, his chest heaving, and practically sprinted into the master bedroom. The door slammed shut with a violent BANG that rattled the picture frames on the wall.

Seconds later, the sound of the shower turning on full blast echoed through the thin walls. Inside the bathroom, Jude violently ripped the ruined shirt and trousers off his body, throwing the contaminated garments into the farthest corner of the tiled floor. He stepped under the showerhead and turned the scalding water on full blast. He scrubbed at his bare chest and legs with a rough loofah, tearing at his own skin until it was raw and bright red, desperate to wash away the phantom sensation of the spill.

In the living room, Blaire swallowed the massive lump of humiliation in her throat. She grabbed a roll of paper towels and dropped to her knees, frantically wiping up the spilled soup.

Sharon hovered over her, inspecting Blaire's swelling wrist. "Pack your bags right now," Sharon demanded, her voice shaking with rage. "You are coming home with me. I am not leaving you in this apartment with that psycho."

Blaire's heart pounded. If she went home, the relentless blind dates would start again tomorrow. She scrubbed the floor harder. "I can't, Mom. I signed a strict lease. If I break it, I lose thousands of dollars."

Sharon argued, pleaded, and yelled, but Blaire locked her jaw and refused to budge. Finally, at ten o'clock at night, exhausted and furious, Sharon grabbed her purse and stormed out of the apartment.

Blaire slumped against the front door after locking it. She listened to the water still running in the master bathroom. A deep, bitter anger began to replace her humiliation.

Half an hour later, the bathroom door finally opened. Jude walked out wearing a thick terrycloth bathrobe. His wet hair dripped onto his forehead. His eyes immediately locked onto Blaire, who was throwing the last of the paper towels into the trash.

Blaire straightened her spine. She met his cold glare with equal ferocity. "Let me make this perfectly clear," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I did not try to seduce you. It was an accident. If my presence disgusts you that much, we can tear up the contract right now."

Jude stopped wiping his hair. Tearing up the contract meant his grandmother would immediately resume her matchmaking terror. He sneered, his upper lip curling. "Reel in your temper. Don't forget, you were the one desperate to play this game."

Blaire gasped, her chest tight with indignation. She pointed a shaking finger toward the guest room. "Fine. Then to make sure you never feel 'seduced' again, we sleep in separate rooms. Make sure to lock the door tonight.!"

They returned to their respective rooms and did not speak to each other again that night.

At 2:00 AM, the lock on the master bedroom clicked open.

Jude stepped out into the dark living room. He hadn't eaten anything since the sandwich that morning, and his stomach was cramping. He headed for the kitchen to get water.

As he passed Blair's room, he peeked through a crack in the door.

He stopped. Blaire was curled up, her teeth visibly chattering, her face pale from the freezing temperature.

Jude's hand tightened around his empty water glass. He remembered how fiercely she had defended him against her mother's insults earlier, and how stubbornly she had fought back against him.

He frowned deeply. A brief, irritating flash of human decency pierced through his armor.

He turned around, walked back into his bedroom, and pulled a heavy, incredibly expensive cashmere blanket from his closet. He walked silently back to the room.

He leaned over, his movements stiff and awkward, and draped the heavy cashmere over her shivering body.

As he pulled his hands back, Blaire felt the sudden, enveloping warmth. Still deep in her miserable sleep, she let out a soft sigh and instinctively nuzzled her face upward, seeking the heat.

Her soft, warm cheek brushed directly against the back of Jude's hand.

Jude's entire body paralyzed. His brain instantly triggered the highest level of threat response. He braced his core, waiting for the suffocating panic, the violent urge to vomit, the sensation of his skin crawling off his bones.

One second passed. Two seconds.

Nothing.

There was no panic. There was no nausea. There was only the soft, warm friction of her skin against his knuckles.

Jude's pupils dilated massively. His heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer. He stared at his hand, then down at the sleeping woman, his mind short-circuiting.

He yanked his hand back as if he had been burned, stumbling two steps backward until his spine hit the kitchen island. He gripped the marble counter, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide with absolute, earth-shattering shock.

How is this possible?