2.) Bittersweet
Everything about her was a clash, a contrast, two sides jarring and scraping against each other. And he loved her for it.
There was her cold and calculating "Super Über Cut-Throat Bitch' persona, which he knew she enjoyed immensely; it got her ahead, at the cost of acquaintances she wouldn't have cared about anyway.
And there was the other side. Amber. The softness in her eyes when he'd remembered her birthday (as if he'd forget) and showed up with a bunch of white lilies after work; knowing without being told that she didn't much care for presents - gifts meant she owed people. The laugh she used with him; not the icy trill, but the loud, unattractive (to anyone but him), warm explosion of joy she saved for special occasions.
Sometimes they worked, and sometimes they didn't.
All he knew was that every morning, his first thought ran to which Amber was lying next to him. Every cutting word and exasperated look seemed to hurt more than the last. Every "I love you" tasted bittersweet.
No. You're wrong. Half of you loves me. The other half tolerates.
And for now, at least, that was enough.
But for how much longer?