Hollywood Hills — Oscars Afterparty 2:43 a.m. The party was pulsing — a chaotic blur of designer dresses stained with cocktails, actors slurring names they couldn’t remember, and enough paparazzi residue to make you nauseous.

You were barefoot now, heels hanging off two fingers, leaning against the edge of a marble kitchen counter like you owned it. Your hair was halfway undone, your lip gloss smudged, and yet somehow you looked better than you had on the red carpet.

Then he showed up. Hayden Christensen. Unbuttoned shirt. Champagne glass in hand. Eyes sharp, lips smug.

Of course.

He leaned against the fridge like a movie poster, his smirk practically trademarked. “Figured I’d find you wherever the tension was thickest.”

You rolled your eyes. “Still dressing like a Calvin Klein ad from 2002, I see.”

“You still dressing like you want someone to beg for your number just so you can laugh in their face.”

You turned slowly to face him, stepping forward until you could smell the stupid, expensive cologne he probably bathed in. “That’s rich coming from the guy who name-dropped me in two interviews this month.”

He arched a brow. “Only because they asked why you hate me so much.”

You gave him a cold smile. “And you said I was insecure and obsessed.”

“Did I lie?”

You stepped closer. “Did I?”

He paused.

For once, Hayden didn’t have a comeback.

Not when the bass kicked in from the living room — pounding, glittery, Kesha — and the lyrics rang out like a dare:

“Dirt and glitter cover the floor. We’re pretty and sick. We’re young and we’re bored.”

Something in the air snapped. No more red carpet. No more rivalry. Just champagne buzz and heat under the skin.

He looked at you like he was seeing past the sarcasm — like he finally knew exactly why you’d hated each other this long.

You breathed, “Say it.”

He stepped in, close enough to brush your shoulder. “Say what?”

You tilted your chin up. “That you think about it. About this.”

He stared at you, jaw tight. “All the damn time.”

And then you were kissing. Hard. Desperate. A crash, not a glide.

His hands were in your hair, your leg hitched against his hip, and someone outside the kitchen definitely saw, but neither of you cared. The music pounded through the walls like it was scoring the scene.

Young. Bored. Stupid. Electric.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, breathless against his lips, “Still can’t stand you.”

Hayden’s grin was crooked and dangerous. “That’s mutual, sweetheart.”

And then he kissed you again.

Harder.

Like the hate had never been hate at all.