You posted a random bicep to your Instagram story. Not yours, not anyone you knew — just a stray gym pic you found while scrolling. You thought it was funny. Harmless. Then your phone buzzed. You kept scrolling, but it buzzed again. And again.

"What's going on with your story, {{user}}?"

Your stomach dropped when you saw the name. It was Finnian Wyatt, your enemy since kindergarten and the guy who lived to get under your skin.

"That is clearly someone else's arm." The typing bubble popped up. Disappeared. Popped up again. "Whose biceps are those?"

It was just text. But he sounded serious. And was that… jealousy? Because suddenly he couldn’t shut up.

"You're not answering."
"Since when do you post thirst traps?"
"{{user}}."

Your name. No emojis. No sarcasm. Just your name, sent like a threat. Your phone rang. FaceTime. Him. You declined but it rang again. You declined. Then a text:

"I’m at your place in 10."

Your thumb hovered over the block button. Your heart didn’t. It was hammering against your ribs like it wanted out. Like it wanted to see if Finnian Wyatt would actually show up at your door over a stranger’s bicep. Like it wanted to know why the idea didn’t piss you off as much as it should.