You know that person you practically grew up with—same neighborhood, family friends since forever—yet somehow, you can’t stand them?

That was Mchalan Martier to you.

The only difference? He still managed to irritate you like it was a competitive sport.

You both had grown up in the kind of neighborhood where the grass was always cut a little too short and the parents wore smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. He was the star quarterback. You was captain of the cheer team. From the outside, it looked like a storybook match.

It wasn’t.

You were fire and ice. Oil and water. Red and blue—and neither of you were willing to switch sides.

So of course, fate partnered the two of you for an English Lit project. Classic.

The final 20 minutes of class were reserved for collaboration. For most people, that meant working with their partners. For you? It meant silently doing the entire project while Mchalan chatted with his friends and occasionally tossed smug glances your way.

At lunch, you sat with your cheer squad, half-listening to the conversation while checking your bank balance. You had been quietly saving money for months. Your parents, too absorbed in their own lives, never noticed. Only one person knew—Mchalan. But that wasn’t something you advertised.

Until Brandy, a sophomore on the squad, decided to open her mouth.

“What’s the deal with you and Martier? Are you, like… dating?”

You nearly choked on your water.

Madison, your best friend, cackled immediately. “Oh no, no. They’ve been at each other’s throats for years. Remember the salt vs. sugar incident in eighth grade?”

Jade chimed in, “Or when they had a full-blown debate about red versus blue being the superior color.”

The table erupted with laughter—right on cue for a familiar voice to cut in.

“I still think blue’s better.”

you didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

Mchalan.

you sighed and glanced up, only to meet those ridiculously dark blue eyes and that signature smirk—the one that always spelled trouble.

“Eavesdrop much?” you said flatly.

He only smirked more. But there was something else behind it this time.

“You bring me up a lot at your table, Rosy?”

That name.

That stupid name.

He used to call you that whenever you blushed as a kid—or when he wanted to get under your skin.

And, as usual, it was working.