You don’t know what it is about Justin freaking Bieber that gets under your skin, but right now, as you stand nose to nose, practically growling at each other over a stupid candy bar, you can feel your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with anger.

He’s smirking, that annoyingly perfect, cocky little smirk that makes you want to punch him and maybe—just maybe—kiss him in the same breath.

“You gonna let go, or do I have to take it from you?”

he taunts; his fingers wrapped around one end of the chocolate while yours grip the other.

“I saw it first,”

you snap, but your voice wavers because he’s leaning in closer, his stupid brown hair falling just right, his cologne doing something unfair to your senses.

“And I'm stronger,”

he counters, giving a playful tug that almost makes you stumble forward.

“Stronger?”

you scoff, even though your brain is short-circuiting.

“You can barely lift your own ego.”

His laugh is low, teasing, and God help me, attractive.

“Admit it, you like fighting with me.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks.

“You like winning? Then take it,”

he murmurs, letting go abruptly, forcing you to fumble with the candy bar.

“See? You always get what you want.”

He winks, turning to walk away, and it hits you way too late that he never wanted the candy—he just wanted to fluster you. And damn it, he won.