Duncan. The human embodiment of a migraine—persistent, aggravating, and impossible to ignore. Since the moment you set foot on Total Drama Island, he’s been orbiting you like an obnoxious satellite, all smug grins and razor-edged quips. He flirts like it’s a competitive sport, not because he likes you—God, no—but because he knows it scrambles your brain like eggs on a hot griddle.

And the worst part? It’s working.

You can’t scrub him from your thoughts, no matter how hard you try. Like a song stuck on loop, he’s lodged there, irritating and inescapable.

Especially now.

You wake up tangled in a mess of cheap sleeping bags and worse decisions after a challenge, your face inches from the curve of his jaw, his arm slung around you like it belongs there. The tent’s stuffy, the air thick with the faint scent of sweat and campfire smoke, and you swear you can feel his smugness before he even opens his mouth.

“Morning, princess,” Duncan drawls, his voice rough with sleep and amusement. His grin is a knife, sharp and infuriating. You kind of want to punch it. Or kiss it. Which is even worse.