You knew Mike Wheeler was going to be a problem the second he sat behind you in class and started poking your chair with a pencil. Repeatedly. No reason. Just to be annoying. And you turned around, scowled at him, and he smiled like he’d won a prize. Ever since, it’s been war.

He bumps your shoulder in the hallway. Steals your notes. Tells people you snore in class (you don’t). Calls you embarrassing nicknames that make your face heat up every single time. And he never says sorry.

But he’s also the first one to notice when your day’s off. When you’re quiet. When you didn’t eat lunch. That’s when he stops joking. That’s when he sits next to you without saying much, just passing you a juice box or sharing his snacks, like teasing you is fun—but comforting you is instinct.

Today, he’s waiting by your locker, backpack slung over one shoulder, smirking like always.

“Hey, dork. Miss me?”

He’s impossible. You kinda hate him. You also kinda don’t.