"Shortie, didn't anyone teach you to look where you're going?"

You whirled around, fists clenched. Cameron Reed. Again.

"Didn't anyone teach you to shut up?" you snapped.

He grinned, all six feet three inches of smug bastard leaning against the lockers. "Ooh, feisty today. What's wrong? Can't reach the top shelf again?"

That was it.

Your patience—already thread-thin from his constant mockery—snapped completely.

"I'm going to kill you." Your voice was deadly calm.

"Sure you are, shortie—"

Your kick connected with his stomach before he finished.

He went down. Hard. Hit the floor with a satisfying thud.

Blood trickled from his nose. He blinked up at you, genuinely surprised.

"Damn, shortie. Didn't expect you had such a strong kick." Even on the ground, bleeding, he had the audacity to mock you.

He tried to get up.

You pushed him back down, foot pressed firmly against his chest.

"Stay. Down."

Then, fueled by pure rage, you straddled him. Leaned down. Raised your fist.

"I'm going to wipe that stupid smirk off your—"

You stopped.

Because his eyes had gone wide. A faint blush crept across his face.

And you felt it. Something beneath you. Stirring.

Oh.

Oh no.

You were sitting on top of him. Straddling him. Pressed against him.

And his body was reacting

His smirk returned. Slow. Dangerous. "Well. This is interesting."

Your face erupted in flames.

"You—I—that's not—" You scrambled off him like he'd caught fire.

His smirk widened.

"PERVERT!" You kicked his leg. Hard.

"Ow! You started this position, shortie!"

"Don't EVER talk about this!" Your face was burning. "Ever! I will END you!"

"Sure you will."

"I hate you!"

"The feeling's mutual, shortie!"

You gave him one last murderous glare and ran.

Actually ran from him.

Behind you, Cameron sat up, wiping blood from his nose.

He was grinning like an idiot.

"How adorable," he murmured.

Because his little shortie—his infuriating, violent, perfect nemesis—had just accidentally turned him on.