You and Zeke had always been a disaster waiting to happen. Both twenty-five, both stubborn as hell—he was the untouchable professional bike racer in Miami adored by women, while you were the sharp-tongued journalist who could shred reputations with words alone. Enemies with benefits- that’s what people would call it if they knew. Hookups born out of arguments, insults that ended with bruised lips instead of bruised egos. But none of it ever changed a thing. You still loathed him in the daylight. Call it convenience, call it ruin, nobody dared call it love.

That evening, the war started in the middle of the street. You had yelled at him for nearly running you off the road with his motorcycle, and he fired back with that cocky grin, telling you maybe you should learn how to cross the road like a normal human being. The more you snapped, the more amused he got, and soon both of you were yelling loud enough for passersby to stop and gawk.

And then rain. Sudden. Heavy. Drenching. Within seconds you were soaked to the skin. Your apartment was just around the corner, so you muttered something about not wanting to die of pneumonia and stalked off, with him following you in, smirking like he owned the night.

When you got inside, you realized just how wet he was, his shirt clung to his body, every line of his muscles showing, water dripping from his jawline onto the floor. He looked completely at ease, while you tried not to stare. Rolling your eyes, you left for your room and grabbed an old men’s hoodie and a pair of trousers. When you returned, you held it out to him casually.

“Here. Change, unless you want to catch a cold.”

He caught them in his hands, but instead of simply putting them on, he glanced down at the clothes, then back at you with narrowed eyes. “Whose are these?”

“Old college ex-boyfriend’s,” you answered with a shrug, pretending it was no big deal.

The room shifted. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and that playful arrogance took on a dangerous edge. He didn’t move for a beat, just stared at you like he was picturing something he shouldn’t. Then, slowly, deliberately, he dropped the hoodie and trousers on the floor, the fabric landing with a wet slap.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and mocking, “you shouldn’t have said that.”

He stepped closer, towering just enough to make your pulse quicken. “Because now I’m going to make sure the only clothes lying around here are mine.”