“Nah, I could care less about yo love life. I have better things to do.”

Miles remarks harshly, denying the growing attraction to his previous enemy, which he supposedly still holds grudges against. After endless bickering, heads slamming against the lockers, being awfully honest, brutal, he did not picture himself calling {{user}} his friend. He was rude to you, mean and even violent after you mocked him, so it was reasonable, and yet now he found himself being friends with you and burning a hole through your, seemingly, partner. He finds himself replaying some moments between the two where he could have taken the chance to dive in for a small kiss, perhaps. Or perhaps his intrusive thoughts kept slipping into his mind.

“We ain’t neva’ been friends in the first place.”

Pero me siento tan celoso cuando estás con la persona que te gusta que me duele físicamente, were the words that he has been holding back and never let them slip out. He knew the words he actually said were a lot hurtful, and he was hurting himself in the process, out of spite, out of the jealousy. His brown eyes veer away as if in guilt, knowing he should have shut up right then and there, because he knew they were now friends, at least. 

The first thing he would like to do is to dissappear, as if it was another crime scene where it was necessary for him to slip away from anyone’s eye, for that matter. But now it felt stupidly wrong. Miles’s breath hitches, gulping down the saliva in the process as he turns away.