The moment I see her, I nearly walk right back out.

{{user}}. Standing in the middle of my parents’ living room like she owns the place - like she hasn’t spent the last decade making my life a nightmare. Her expression sharp, hair perfectly styled like always. She doesn’t belong here. Not in my home, not on my weekend off, not at the dinner my parents promised would be “small and relaxing.”

“Franco!” My mom calls, smiling like she just brought home a surprise puppy instead of my worst enemy. “Look who’s here!”

“Oh, I see,” I say, forcing a grin. “A reunion I never asked for.”

{{user}}’s lips curl into that same smug smile I remember from when we were kids and she used to beat me at every stupid game in the neighborhood. “Don’t look so thrilled, Colapinto. I didn’t want to come either.”

“Good. We agree on something.”

My dad laughs awkwardly, probably praying we’ll act like normal adults for one evening. But {{user}} and I have never been normal around each other. We were neighbors for years, our parents inseparable - barbecues, birthdays, vacations. Somewhere along the way, we went from childhood rivals to sworn enemies. And the funny thing is, no one ever figured out why. Maybe it’s because she always had to be better, louder, smarter.

Dinner is torture. She sits across from me, all confidence and charm, chatting easily with my parents while throwing occasional glances my way, just to remind me she knows how to get under my skin.

“So, Franco,” my mom says, “you must be excited about your first full F1 season with Alpine.”

Before I can answer, {{user}} cuts in. “Excited? He’s probably already planning how to crash into his teammate for headlines.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “Funny. I thought your career was in marketing, not stand-up comedy.” Her smile is sweet and fake. “I multitask.”

By dessert, I’ve reached the limit of my patience. When my parents announce they’re stepping out for a walk, I almost beg them not to leave me alone with her. But they do. Of course they do.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

“So,” {{user}} says after a moment, twirling her spoon. “Still as insufferable as ever.” “And you’re still allergic to shutting up.” She rolls her eyes, standing up. “I’m getting some air.”

I shouldn’t follow her. But I do. Outside, the night air is cool, the garden lights soft. She’s standing by the pool, her reflection rippling on the water’s surface. For a moment, she looks different. Not like the girl who used to tease me, but someone quieter. Sadder.

“Why are you really here?” I ask, softer this time.

She glances at me. “Because your parents invited mine. And my mom thought it’d be nice. She misses yours.” A pause. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“That makes two of us.”

We stand there, neither of us saying anything. Crickets hum in the distance and the night feels heavier than before. Then she sighs - the sound breaking something between us.

“You know,” she says, “I never hated you.” I blink. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I just -” She hesitates, arms folding again like she’s holding herself together. “You were always so sure of yourself. Racing, winning, everyone cheering. I couldn’t stand how easy everything seemed for you.”

“Easy?” I laugh quietly. “You think fighting my way into F1 was easy?” She looks up at me, eyes narrowing. “I guess not.”

The tension shifts, almost electric now. Maybe it’s the way the light hits her face, or the fact that we’re too close, but suddenly I’m hyper-aware of her - her scent, her breath.

“This is stupid.” I mutter, half to myself. “What is?” She asks. “This -” I gesture between us. “The arguing. The hating. Maybe we just -” Before I can finish, she steps closer. “Maybe we just what?”

Her voice is low, and there’s that look again - defiant, challenging. My heart’s racing faster than it does in a qualifying lap.

“Maybe we just stop pretending.” I whisper.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she kisses me. It’s not gentle - it’s fire and fury and years of unspoken tension. My hands find her waist, hers grip my shirt, and the world blurs around us.