You fucked with each other— religiously.

The rivalry was old as bloodstains and gossip, stitched into the walls of the campus long before either of you ever set foot there. The Populars vs. the Emos. A feud so ancient no one remembered how it began—only that you were told who to hate and how hard.

But sometimes it wasn’t history that kept the fire burning.

Sometimes it was desire.

That was what complicated everything with Choso Kamo. Brooding, sharp-eyed, dangerous in that lazy way that made people lean closer even when they knew better.

It had started with a glance.

You and your girlfriends were snapping pictures outside the arts building when a pack of stoners wandered past. Someone snorted. Someone laughed. You joined in—because that was what you were supposed to do.

Most of them didn’t even look at you.

Except the last one.

Choso slowed just enough for his eyes to catch yours. A crooked little smirk tugged at his mouth like he’d just been handed a secret. Heat climbed up your spine. You rolled your eyes and scoffed, pretending he was disgusting.

Your heart didn’t get the memo.

From there, it turned personal.

A week later he slipped on spilled paint in the quad and went down hard, splattering himself in neon streaks. You took a photo and sent it straight to your group chat, laughter shaking your shoulders.

Three days after that, he got you back.

You were shoved into a locker so fast the breath left your lungs. The metal door slammed, plunging you into darkness. You could hear him outside.

“Get me out, you asshole!”

His shoulders shook with quiet laughter, voice low and lazy through the metal. “Nah. I think I’ll keep you in there for a minute, sweetheart. Let’s see if someone finds you before the bell—wouldn’t want you getting embarrassed, right?”

Then he walked off, smug as hell, leaving you pounding on steel and swearing revenge.

Two weeks passed. You didn’t cool down—you simmered.

So when you heard the muffled thrum of distorted guitar echoing through the halls one night, you followed it like a bloodhound.

The band room door was cracked.

Inside, Choso and his friends were rehearsing—amps humming, drums rattling the floor. Your eyes betrayed you, dragging over him: the flex of his forearms, the way his fingers wrapped around the neck of his guitar, dark hair falling into his face like he didn’t care who was watching.

You did.

And then something ugly and clever sparked in your chest.

Midnight crept in through the tall windows, painting everything silver and blue. The band room was empty now, quiet, vulnerable. When the doorknob turned beneath your hand, a slow, vindictive smile curved your lips.

Payback.

You slipped inside and headed straight for the instruments. Your fingers wrapped around a cymbal stand, lifting it high, ready to bring it crashing down—

A hand shot out of nowhere.

Choso caught your wrist mid-swing, stopping you inches from destruction. His grip was iron, his body suddenly close enough that you could smell smoke and metal on him.

Slowly, his dark eyes dropped to yours.

“If you knew what was good for you,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “you’d stop right here.”