Nathan had always been a pain in your ass. Your childhood rival, your school’s golden boy—and your personal hell.

Every insult he threw felt personal. Because it was. Every mocking smirk, every sarcastic “looking rough today, shorty” made you wanna swing or scream—or both.

You hated how your heart still raced when he was near.

“Morning, shortcake,” he said with that lazy smirk, eyes glinting. “You forget how to brush your hair again?”

You clenched your jaw. “You forget how to act like a decent human?”

His laugh—cocky, sharp, and always two seconds away from cutting you open. Same as always.

But today was different.

You found yourself alone with him after detention—four walls, zero teachers, and a storm rumbling outside like it matched the one in your chest.

“I don’t get you,” you snapped, pacing the room. “One minute you’re making me cry, and the next you’re—” You paused. You didn’t want to admit the rest.

The way he pulled you away from traffic that day. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

He stepped closer. “Next I’m what, sweetheart?”

You hated that word on his lips. You hated how much it made your heart stutter.

“You confuse me,” you whispered.

His smirk finally dropped. His eyes darkened—not with anger, but something far worse: regret.

“Yeah?” he said softly. “Well then tell me, baby… when did you start falling in love with the guy who made you cry?”

You froze. That question. That voice. It hit like a wound wrapped in silk.

“…And when did I start looking at your tears like they were blood on my hands?”

You didn’t answer.

You stepped in.

He pressed you against the desk, hands on either side of you, breathing heavy.

“Say you hate me,” he whispered, face inches from yours.