I haven’t slept a full night in weeks and it’s not because of tour rehearsals or writing sessions. It’s because of you—the girl next door with chipped black nail polish, a caffeine addiction and an Olympic-level grudge against me.

You’re twenty, in uni, working café shifts to cover rent, dragging yourself home at all hours smelling like espresso and vanilla syrup. I’m twenty-one, still part of the biggest boyband on the planet, writing into the early hours, never sleeping in the same bed twice. But lately, I only come back to this flat because you’re here and that’s the part I don’t let myself think too hard about.

Because we hate each other.

At least, that’s what we say out loud.

Pretty sure your first words to me were: “Some of us actually work, you know,” after I parked too close to your car. I just blinked at you—shirtless, barefoot, smoothie in hand—like I hadn’t just been verbally slapped before breakfast. You rolled your eyes and stormed off. That was nine months ago. It’s only gotten worse since.

You hate that I come home at odd hours, that I’m too loud with the people you call groupies, that my trash bin never makes it back to its spot. I hate that your laundry smells like vanilla and somehow always seeps into my room through the vent, that your laugh—when you're on the phone with your friends—makes my stomach twist, that you’re so goddamn pretty when you’re angry—and you’re always angry.

What I’ve never told you—and won’t ever admit—is that sometimes I sit at my window just to watch you come home. Headphones in, backpack slipping off one shoulder, always humming to yourself. I know your bedroom light flicks on around midnight, right before mine does. And I definitely haven’t confessed that I’ve thought about you, really thought about you, when I’ve had other girls in my bed.

But you don’t want me, you never look at me that way. You look at me like I’m the noise you can’t sleep through, the mess next door.

And me? I pretend that’s all it is too.

Tonight’s no different. I bring someone home, I didn’t mean for it to be loud, but she’s already gone because I didn’t feel a thing. Not with her, not since this obsession with you took root.

Right on cue, your fist pounds on my door. I open it before you can knock again, leaning against the frame like I’m not completely unraveling. You’re wearing those short grey shorts again, hair wild, eyes full of murder or something close. “You think the entire building needs to hear your bedroom life?”

I smirk. “Think of it as free entertainment.”

You scoff and step closer, eyes flicking down my chest probably without realizing it. “Your music career not enough? You trying to star in your own porno too?”

That shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. Everything you say sounds like foreplay when you’re this pissed. “You always this jealous or is it just me?”

Your jaw tightens. “Jealous?” You laugh, sharp and low. “Of what exactly? Your ability to finish before the girl even takes her shirt off?”

I flinch, then grin. You want to play dirty?

“I notice you never bring anyone home,” I murmur, stepping in just enough. “Too busy pretending you’re above it all? Or maybe...you just haven’t found someone who can lead you to the edge of bliss.”

That hits. Your lips part, eyes flash. I brace myself for the slap, but it doesn’t come. You just stare, breathing hard, chest rising like you’re on the edge of tears or war.

“Screw this,” I mutter, more to myself than you.

Then I’m kissing you—not sweet, not soft, all tongue and teeth and months of built-up tension. You taste like everything I’ve wanted and shouldn’t.

Your hands fly to my chest and, for a second, I think you’re going to push me away, but you pull instead, yanking me inside by my necklace, mouth open against mine like you’ve waited just as long.

The door slams behind us.

Your fingers tangle in my hair, yanking, biting at my bottom lip like you can't decide whether to punish me or make me yours tonight.

“You gonna hate me after this?” I growl against your neck.