Cate had hated {{user}} for as long as she could remember — in that specific, exhausting way that came from being forced to share air with someone who was too much of everything Cate couldn’t stand. Too loud, too bold, too stubborn.

It started years ago, back when Cate still wore her cheer uniform like armor and {{user}} was the leather-jacketed transfer student who immediately made an impression — the kind that scraped. She’d mocked Cate’s prissy tone, rolled her eyes in class whenever Cate raised her hand, and once, during a pep rally, called her “Vought’s favorite little Barbie.” It had stuck.

They were oil and fire, pride and defiance. Every time Cate tried to assert herself, {{user}} met her halfway and pushed back twice as hard. When Cate became the shining example of composure, {{user}} became the one who lit matches in her wake.

And then one day, out of all the people on this cursed planet, {{user}} started dating Caleb. Cate’s brother.

She swore the universe was laughing at her.

Now, every family gathering, every weekend visit, Cate had to endure {{user}}’s smirk across the dinner table. The same girl who used to mock her lip gloss now sat beside her brother, hand resting on his thigh, pretending to play nice. Cate knew it was a game — it had to be. {{user}} was too unpredictable, too reckless to play “good girlfriend” without some ulterior motive.

But Caleb adored her. He always had a weakness for chaos wrapped in a grin.

So Cate did what she did best — she kept her composure. Until she couldn’t.

Until this.

Until the house was empty, her parents gone, her brother off on a trip, and Cate found herself wandering the hallways of her own home at midnight, half-asleep and craving silence — only to hear music.

Low, sultry, distant.

She followed the sound.

And there, framed by the doorway, was {{user}} — in soft pink lace pajamas that had no business being in her house, hips swaying lazily to the rhythm, a glass of water balanced in one hand.

For a second, Cate forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t fair, the way she looked. Careless. Barefoot. Soft. Like the same girl who once threw a milkshake at her was now some impossible dream in pastel cotton.

Cate leaned against the doorframe, voice syrup-smooth. “You planning to make the floor blush too, or just me?”

{{user}} froze, then turned with that same infuriatingly calm smile. “Didn’t realize you were watching.”

“Please,” Cate scoffed, arms crossing over her chest. “You wanted someone to watch.”

{{user}}’s eyes glinted. “You always assume everyone wants your attention.”

“That’s because they usually do.” Cate tilted her head, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Except you, right? You’re special.”

“Guess I am.”

“Guess you’re delusional,” Cate countered, but the insult fell flat. Her throat felt dry, and her words were softer than she wanted them to be.

{{user}} closed the space between them, slow and deliberate, until Cate could feel the heat radiating off her. “You know,” she murmured, “for someone who hates me, you spend an awful lot of time looking at me.”

Cate’s heart stuttered. Her jaw tightened. “I don’t look at you.”

“Then what’s this?” {{user}} whispered, brushing past her shoulder, her voice just barely teasing. “Concern?”

“Revulsion.”

“Mm. Sure it is.”

Cate’s composure cracked, just slightly, and she turned, snapping, “You think this is funny? Parading around in my brother’s house like—”

“Like what?”

Cate stopped. She didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound like confession.

{{user}} smiled, stepping even closer, close enough for Cate to see the faint freckles across her collarbone, the glint of challenge in her eyes. “You really hate me that much, huh?”

Cate’s breath hitched. “More than you’ll ever know.”