I used to think hatred was something cold. Something numb. But what I feel for her burns—fast, hot, corrosive. The kind of fire that destroys everything it touches.

She didn’t just “fix” my image. She dismantled it. Piece by piece. She called me arrogant in a meeting full of executives. Told them I was reckless. Told them I didn’t know how to handle pressure. And they believed her.

She was the first person who ever looked at me and saw every flaw I try to bury.

And I’ve hated her for it ever since.

When she storms into my apartment tonight, the air shifts instantly—tightens, sharpens. My pulse jumps, not from fear, but from that familiar, infuriating tension that she always drags with her.

“You really don’t learn, do you?” she says, voice low, vibrating with anger. She tosses a stack of papers onto my table, and they scatter across the wood like accusations. “You blew the interview. Again.”

My jaw locks. “Maybe if the questions weren’t designed to make me look like a psychopath—”

“The questions didn’t do that,” she snaps, stepping closer. “You did.”

Her words hit me harder than I expect. They always do. They’re precise, like she knows exactly which emotional bruise to press.

“You enjoy this,” I say, because admitting the rest would require more oxygen than I currently have. “You like watching me fail.”

Her eyes flash—a tiny spark of something raw. “No. I like watching you face consequences for once in your life.”

Something inside me twists. Ugly. Hot. Sharp at the edges.

“You think I don’t face consequences?” My voice comes out rougher than I want. “You think pressure doesn’t rip me apart already?”

She lifts her chin, and the light catches in her eyes—anger, frustration… and something deeper, something she won’t name. “I think you hide behind excuses.”

I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m closer. One step. Then another. She backs up, matching me breath for breath, her expression steady but her throat tight with tension.

Her emotions aren’t subtle—never have been. I can feel them in the air between us: the anger buzzing like electricity, the hurt simmering under her ribs, the stubborn pride keeping her from looking away.

She hits the wall behind her, but doesn’t break eye contact.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warns, voice quiet but trembling at the edges.

“Why?” I ask, taking the last step until we’re inches apart. “Afraid, {{user}}?”

“Of you?” She lets out a harsh laugh. “I don’t fear you, Lando. I just can’t stand you.”

My breath slips out, shaky for reasons I refuse to name. “Good. Because I can’t stand you either.”

The truth tastes metallic on my tongue. Bitter. Honest.

But underneath all the venom, something else coils tight inside me—something I can’t kill off no matter how hard I try.

Her chest rises and falls, fast. Mine matches it. It feels like we’re sharing the same air, the same fury, the same unbearable tension.

For a moment—just one—our hatred quiets. Not disappears. Just shifts into something sharper, darker, more dangerous than either of us will admit.

And we both feel it.

Even if we’ll never say it out loud.