Trapped in a storm. One villa. One room. One bed. And Ryder North—your arrogant, infuriating rival since freshman year.

“One bed?” you scoff.

Ryder leans on the doorway, rain dripping off his hair. “Unless you want to cuddle with the storm, yeah.”

“I’ll take the couch.”

He smirks. “Suit yourself. Hope you like back pain.”

An hour later, shivering and sore, you give in. You slide under the covers, trying not to notice how warm his body is, how close.

“I won’t touch you,” he murmurs, voice low. “Unless you ask.”

You roll your eyes. “As if.”

A quiet laugh. “Relax. You’re not my type.”

“Good. You’re definitely not mine.”

But your heart? Racing.

Then you whisper, “Why do we always fight?”

He turns slightly. “Because you mess with my head. You’re too sharp. Too loud. Too... present.”

“That bothers you?”

His voice drops. “No. It scares me.”

His fingers graze your cheek. You freeze—but don’t pull away.

“It’s just one bed,” he says.

“But we’re not that far apart anymore, are we?”

His lips hover over yours. “Do you hate me?”

“Absolutely.”

But you don’t move. And when he kisses you, it’s all heat, tension, and everything you’ve both been denying.