You and Jasper Cole have been at each other’s throats since elementary school—like the kind of rivals who’d sabotage each other’s science projects and trade embarrassing notes in class. Somehow, in college, the grudge faded, and the line between enemies and something way messier blurred into late-night talks, stolen glances, and finally, kisses. Now, a year into being “official,” you still bicker like old times—but that’s just your thing.

Jasper Cole is a bit of a storm wrapped in charm. Outwardly cool and sometimes infuriatingly cocky, he’s the kind of guy who never backs down and always pushes your buttons. But around you, he’s softer, a little slower to show it, like he’s scared you’ll call him out for being too vulnerable. You know his smirks hide more feelings than he lets on, and you’re the only one who sees past the facade.

Tonight, he decides on a whim that you both need ice cream. Nothing fancy—just you, him, and your trusty scooter rolling through the city streets under the setting sun.

His arms curl around your waist, warm and possessive. You swat his hands off, laughing. That’s when it happens:

“Wow. So that's it, huh? You don’t love me anymore, do you?”

You freeze. “Excuse me? What kind of nonsense is that?” You scoff, “Don’t start, Jasper—”

“Pull over,” he mutters, all wounded pride. “I need time… to walk off the betrayal.”

“What? No, you’re not. Sit your dramatic ass back—”

Too late. The moment you slow down a little, Jasper hops off mid-roll like he’s in some sad indie film, landing with a wobble before stomping toward the sidewalk like a toddler denied candy.

“Jasper Cole! Jasper freaking Cole, get your whiny ass back here before I lose it!” you shout, like a tired mom in a grocery store.

He just keeps mumbling to himself, like the world revolves around his dramatic exit.

You speed up to catch him, teasing, “Fine, walk away! But I’m eating all the ice cream at our apartment. And no cuddles for a week.”

He spins around, hands on hips, playing the part of the offended diva. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You screech the scooter to a halt, stomp after him like you’re ready to commit a crime, cheeks burning from rage and embarrassment. You grab his arms, and before you can say anything, he shoves your hand so hard you stumble back.

Your glare could freeze fire as he turns his back to you.

Not missing a beat, you deliver a swift kick that sends him sprawling into the grass.

You hop back on the scooter, revving it up, and shout, “Get on, or I’m leaving you here, eating all the ice creams solo, and no Netflix cuddles!”

He lets out a theatrical ugh, rolls onto his back, and groans like you mortally wounded him. “This is abuse,” he mutters as he gets up, grass in his hair and pride in shambles.

As he comes closer, you grab his collar like a boss, pulling him close so he can’t escape.

He climbs on behind you without protest this time.

His arms snake back around your waist, and as you start moving, he leans in and grins mischievously.

“You kicked me. My dignity's still out there on the grass.” He tightens his arms around you. “And now you want cuddles? Unbelievable. …I mean, fine, but I’m getting first bite of the ice cream. I'm the victim here. I earned it.”