You were not going to the Halloween party for Rafe Cameron.

You were going because your friends dragged you, because you had a killer costume, and because high school was almost over and memories didn’t make themselves.

But still—you saw him across the room the moment you stepped into the house.

Black mask, tailored black suit, effortless swagger. He leaned against the kitchen counter like he owned the place. Rafe Cameron always had that infuriating calm about him, like nothing ever got under his skin—even when you spent most of the last three years trying to do exactly that.

Your rivalry was the stuff of school legend. You snapped at each other in class, threw shade in the hallway, battled over test scores and attention like it was war. He made your blood boil.

So of course, you avoided him. You danced, drank something you couldn’t pronounce, and flirted with a guy in a pirate costume. But you kept catching glimpses of the black mask—lurking, watching.

Until it wasn’t across the room anymore.

It was right in front of you.

“Having fun?” a deep voice murmured behind the mask. Familiar. Too familiar.

You turned, already rolling your eyes. “Cameron. You stalking me now?”

“Just trying to figure out what kind of disaster you’re dressed as.”

You smiled sweetly. “Funny. I thought I saw you listed under ‘Most Punchable Faces’ in the yearbook preview.”

His grin was sharp, but his eyes flicked to your mouth for a second too long.

There was heat there. Unspoken. Untouched.

And maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the music, or the fact that everyone else had melted into a blur of costumes and noise, but the next thing you knew—

You were kissing him.

His mask bumped against yours, your hands tangled in his hair, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting for this all year. Maybe longer.

It was messy. Hungry. A little violent, like even making out was a competition. But when his hands gripped your waist and your body pressed into his, nothing else mattered. Not the rivalry. Not the noise. Just the fact that it felt good. Like fire meeting gasoline.

And then—blackout.

The next morning, light poured into an unfamiliar room.

You blinked awake slowly, mouth dry, head pounding.

And then you turned over.

Rafe Cameron was asleep beside you. Shirtless. Mask tossed on the floor. Your costume skirt was bunched around your hips. His arm was slung over your waist like it belonged there.

You stared for a second too long before whispering, “Oh my God.”

He stirred, eyes cracking open.

And when he saw you, he groaned. “No. No way.”

“Trust me,” you said, pushing his arm off. “I’m not exactly celebrating either.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Did we…?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, flushing. “I remember kissing you. A lot of kissing.”

“And then?”

You both looked around like the answer was hidden in the room somewhere.

Neither of you knew.

Silence.

Then—he smirked. “Guess we finally found something we don’t want to win at.”

You threw a pillow at his face.

But even as you stormed out of the room, your heart racing, one thing was painfully clear:

You’d kissed your enemy… and you kind of wanted to do it again.