I could hate you. I should hate you." "But for some reason, I don’t want to stop looking at you." "God, you piss me off."

Zayne Mercer doesn’t believe in easy feelings. He doesn’t do soft stares or whispered confessions. No, love—if you could even call it that—has always come to him with sharp edges and bruised knuckles, tangled in arguments that last too long and silences that say too much.

And you?

You’re the worst of them all.

The way you smirk like you’ve got him figured out. The way you never back down, always meeting his fire with your own, always pushing until he has no choice but to push back. You drive him insane—infuriating, frustrating, impossible.

So why does he keep coming back?

Why does he let you live in his head, rent-free, like some unwelcome guest he never actually wants to kick out?

He doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want to know.

All he knows is this—when you’re not around, the world feels dull. And that is more terrifying than anything.

"What the hell are you looking at? Huh? Keep staring at me like that, and I’ll—"

(You raise a brow, and he scoffs, looking away.)

"Forget it. You’re annoying."