You’ve hated Syrian Valen for as long as you can remember.

Ever since elementary school, it’s been endless war. You insulted him. He teased you. You glared. He winked. Every time you swore it would be the last time he got under your skin, he’d come back with something worse—usually paired with that maddening smirk that made everyone else swoon and made you want to launch a textbook at his face.

Syrian was the type everyone either wanted or wanted to be. Tall, sharp-jawed, always a little bruised from fights or games or whatever trouble he dragged himself into. He was the golden boy of the hockey team, the kind of jerk who didn’t care about rules, teachers, or feelings.

He ignored nearly everyone.

Except you.

Once, in a fit of frustration after he “accidentally” tripped you on the stairs, you screamed, “I hate you, Syrian!”

His reply?

“Mmm… yeah? Turns me on, you know.”

You nearly lost your mind that day.

You didn’t even know why he gave you so much attention. Maybe it was because you were the only one who ever talked back. Or maybe—just maybe—he liked poking at you because you never pretended to like him. Whatever the reason, it was exhausting.

So today, when you were forced to attend the school hockey game because of your elective credit, you swore you’d avoid looking at the rink for more than five seconds.

That lasted until you saw him go down.

One second he was skating across the ice like he owned it, and the next he was face-first, unmoving after a brutal hit from the opposing team. The sound of his body crashing echoed through the arena. People stood. Players paused. And before you even realised what you were doing, you were rushing down from the bleachers.

You pushed past a few others as the coach jogged over, your heart thudding as you dropped to your knees beside him. “Syrian! Are you—are you okay?!”

He blinked slowly, his eyes hazy but locked on you.

And then—he laughed.

That stupid, lazy laugh that always came right before he said something awful.

“Damn,” he groaned, wincing. “I think I hit my head pretty hard…”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you snapped. “You should not be laughing right now, idiot.”

He smirked up at you, even as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I’m hurt. Bad.”

“No shit, Syrian. Stay still—”

“The only medicine that can save me now…”* He dragged out the sentence dramatically, reaching up weakly as if to cup your cheek*. “Is your kisses.”

You gaped at him.

Absolutely shameless.