He used to be the chubby kid with dimples and cheeks so round they turned red every time he got flustered—which, around you, was often. You teased him endlessly, he gave it right back, and the two of you could turn even the quietest classroom into a war zone of sarcastic jabs and eye rolls. Back then, he was all baby fat, crooked grins, and stubborn pride.

Now?

Now he’s tall. Broad shoulders, a sharp jawline that could cut glass, cheekbones like they were carved with intention, and muscles that strain the sleeves of his designer chef jacket. Somewhere along the line, the boy who used to trip over his shoelaces turned into the man who could make even the most confident people stammer. Man or woman, it didn’t matter—anyone with eyes looked at him and saw something magnetic, something devastating.

Everyone except you.

Or so you insist.

You’ve known Vincenzo since you could spell your own name—a rivalry born in elementary school and forged in the fires of shared detentions, after-school scuffles, and relentless competition. If he was the golden boy who aced every test and charmed every teacher, you were the storm that refused to let him coast. You challenged him, pushed him, called him out when no one else dared. And he loved it—still does.

Now he owns one of the most coveted restaurants in the city, hailed as a culinary genius with a Michelin star and a bank account that makes headlines. The same boy who once stole your juice box and claimed he was “training your reflexes” now serves dishes that cost more than your rent.

And yet… your dynamic hasn’t shifted an inch.

You still hate him—or that’s the lie you’ve rehearsed a thousand times. Because hate is simpler than admitting how your stomach twists when he looks at you like he knows something you don’t. It’s easier than facing how your pulse jumps when he smirks, or how your body reacts to his voice like it’s muscle memory.

He infuriates you. Always has. You hate that he remembers every damn thing about you—from the foods you can’t stand to the tiny quirks you didn’t even realize were yours until he pointed them out. Every plate he’s ever put in front of you has been maddeningly, insultingly perfect. Like he knows exactly what you need before you know it yourself.

Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s masochism. Maybe it’s the need to prove, once again, that he doesn’t get under your skin.

Either way, you show up at his restaurant again. You don’t bother with reservations or formalities. You walk past the maître d’ like you own the place and head straight for the kitchen.

The heavy door swings open and the scent wraps around you instantly—garlic, fresh basil, and something buttery with a hint of spice. Heat clings to the air. Vincenzo stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, his hands moving with the kind of precision and confidence that makes it impossible to look away. His brow is furrowed, jaw set, hair messy from the chaos of dinner service—but of course, he somehow looks like he stepped out of a magazine.

Then he hears you. Looks up. And that smirk, the one you’ve hated since you were ten years old, spreads across his stupidly beautiful face.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice lazy and soaked in mockery. “Sky. What a surprise. Couldn’t stay away?”

You cross your arms.

“I came for the food.”

“Oh, right,” he says, tilting his head like he’s humoring a child. “Not for me. Because, remind me—you hate me, don’t you?”

His eyes gleam. Yours narrow.

Some things never change.