You weren’t happy about the sleepover.

Your mom had used her cheeriest voice to break the news, all saccharine smiles and excitement about reconnecting with old friends. Of course she hadn’t mentioned until the night before that they would be staying an entire week at the Montclair household. A full week under the same roof as him. Xavier.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here. He was off to college, away from the neighborhood, away from your hair—finally, after what had felt like a lifetime of mutual torment. But of course he’d come home for spring break, and of course the universe would conspire to bring you right back into the same orbit.

He opened the door when you arrived. Taller now, obviously. A little more filled out, older in a way that was just annoying. Like it made his smug grin more convincing.

“{{user}},” he said, shaking his head like he’d just found a roach on the welcome mat. “You’re still the little girl of pure menace, huh?”

You didn’t reply. You just stepped inside and let your bag thump against his foot. Accidentally.

It was like that with you and Ian. Always had been. From the moment you met, back in preschool when your parents tried to force a playdate. You’d pushed him off the swings. He’d stuck glue in your hair the next day. You’d retaliated with glitter in his backpack. He’d hidden your favorite book for a week.

And it never stopped.

Elementary school had been a battlefield. Middle school turned into a war of stealth. Pranks. Notes slipped into lockers. Fake rumors started just subtle enough that no one could trace them. Your parents thought it was endearing. “They’ll be best friends one day,” they always said.

They weren’t.

That first night at Xavier’s house, you slept in the guest room. He knocked on the door once, late—probably just to bother you—but you didn’t answer. The next morning, your phone background had mysteriously been changed to an embarrassing childhood photo of you in a duck costume. You never even figured out how he’d gotten your passcode.

By the third day, it was like no time had passed at all. He stole your phone charger and claimed it was his. You put toothpaste in his Oreos and left them neatly on the kitchen counter. He screamed when he bit into one and you smiled—quietly.

You wandered through the familiar hallways of his house, now hung with graduation photos and letters from some engineering school you couldn’t remember the name of. The living room still had the same scuffed coffee table where you once launched your first-ever water balloon attack. The backyard still had the maple tree he’d fallen out of trying to chase your kite. He broke his arm. You cried because you thought he’d die. He didn’t.

You were eight then. You’re eighteen now. He’s nineteen. A freshman. Somehow both too old and not old enough to be taken seriously.

On the fourth night, it rained.

Your parents were out with his, playing cards and reminiscing. You were stuck in the living room while Ian worked on some programming project on his laptop. You lay on the couch, arms folded, annoyed with the silence, annoyed with the rain, annoyed with everything.

He didn’t say much. Just the occasional click of his keyboard, the way he’d glance over at you and smirk like he’d already planned his next move. He probably had. You braced for it.

It didn’t come.

Instead, something shifted. You looked over at him, saw the way his brow furrowed when he typed, the quiet way his jaw moved when he thought. You didn’t remember that. You remembered the boy who stole your shoes and duct-taped them to the tree. The boy who called you “Bunbun” until the fourth grade. Not this person, sitting three feet away, chewing on the inside of his cheek like a real human being.

It was weird.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

Your room was cold. The wind made the windows creak. You got up, walked downstairs to the kitchen, and found him there already, sitting at the table with a mug of hot chocolate, eyes half-lidded. “Weather’s keeping you awake, huh?”