Four damn summers in a row, bringing out the worst in you—and that was saying a lot.

But, could you blame him? You got just as much of a kick out of messing with Luke as he did messing with you. It was like some messed up game neither of you had any idea when started.

Luke had been at camp a year longer than you. When you first met him, you thought he was friendly.

I said 'thought'.

Maybe it all started when he was having a bad day and you accidentally bumped into him. Or maybe it was that one look he gave you—the one that made you feel like you'd just been roasted alive.

Maybe it was after that, when you two started to “accidentally” bumping shoulders, shoving past each other, or tossing sarcastic remarks just to get on each other’s nerves.

He found you pretty, of course. You were stunning—plenty of girls at camp were. But for some strange reason, to him, you were way prettier.

The kind of girl who deserved sweet nicknames and kisses that made you forget how to breathe. He wanted to pull you close, tell you how gorgeous you looked when you were mad, and…

Never mind.

Luke hated the amount of time he spent laying on his bunk at night, thinking about cuddling with you or holding you while whispering cheesy, romantic nonsense in your ear.

Although, he also thought you were a brat. Always messing with him and no one else. Making him look like an idiot in front of the younger campers, pulling annoying pranks on him every chance you got.

Which, just for the record, he made sure to return—ten times worse.

It wasn’t much better for you. He was a pain in the ass, and you couldn’t figure out why it drove you so crazy. Sure, he’d mess with you nonstop, but the worst part? You found him attractive as hell.

So, Luke was sitting in the woods, enjoying his peace, just polishing his lover—his sword.

But, of course, the gods couldn’t let him have five minutes of quiet, because just as he was about to start, he heard your voice.