they’d hated each other since forever. literally. grew up side by side — he in the house with the black gate, she behind the white fence, with that perfect little garden, just as fake as the life she liked to pretend she had. since they were kids, mari santos looked at miguel like he was the embodiment of chaos — and maybe he was.

he was always sneaking into her house, stealing juice from the fridge, playing videogames with her brother, nick. and mari would always show up, huffing, muttering something about “trespassing” or “annoying boys.” he found it hilarious. watching her get mad had become a hobby — like poking a cat just to see it hiss.

time passed. nothing changed. actually, it got worse.

now, at seventeen, senior year, and her sixteen, their rivalry had evolved into open warfare. same hallways, same classrooms, even the same gym teacher. she acted like he didn’t exist; he made it his life’s mission to remind her he did. it was automatic — one glare, one sarcastic comment, one “accidental” bump in the hallway. that kind of stupid tension no one understands, but no one can stop either.

then, one day, everything fell off script.

it was raining like the sky had finally decided to collapse. the sound of water hitting the roof echoed through the house. miguel was sprawled on the couch, half-watching something random on tv, when someone started knocking. he turned the volume down, irritated, and went to the door.

and when he opened it — he almost laughed.

there she was. mari santos. soaked to the bone, hair dripping, clothes clinging to her like second skin. her expression — a mess of anger, embarrassment, and something close to panic. the last person he’d ever expect on his doorstep, and yet, there she stood.

for a few seconds, he just stared. because honestly, it was surreal. the girl who spent every day pretending he didn’t exist, now looking like she needed him.

“shit,” he muttered under his breath, a half-laugh slipping out.

before he could say anything, his mom, wendy, appeared in the hallway — soft voice, warm smile, all that maternal sunshine.

“miguel, let her in, honey. it’s pouring out there.”

and that was that. because no one argues with that tone.

he stepped aside, letting mari in. the floor immediately turned into a puddle, but whatever. she stood there awkwardly, hugging herself, scanning the room like it was enemy territory — which, to be fair, it was.

his mom disappeared down the hall, mumbling something about fetching things from the neighbor’s house. perfect. she’d just left him alone with the storm in human form.

the silence that followed was brutal. she stood frozen in the middle of the room. he leaned against the wall, controller still in hand.

then she started talking — fast, nervous, tripping over her words. she mentioned jace. and that was when he knew this was bad.

he stayed quiet, arms crossed, watching. the way she gestured too much, the way her eyes tried to stay steady but kept shaking. he could tell asking for help was killing her.

when she finally stopped, silence filled the air again. he let it stretch — just to watch her squirm. then he said it:

“and what do i get out of it?”

the words came sharp, instinctive. she rolled her eyes, of course. didn’t bother answering.

but he didn’t need an answer anyway. he’d already decided he’d help. he just didn’t want to admit it.

and when he noticed she was trembling — not from nerves, but from cold — something in him cracked.

he sighed, tossed the controller onto the couch, walked into the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and came back.

“take this before you get sick,” he muttered, throwing it on the couch near her.

she looked surprised — like she expected him to tell her to deal with it herself.

he just shrugged, leaning against the wall again, pretending he didn’t care.

because the truth was, no matter how much he tried to hate her, something in him always gave in. even after all the fights and insults, all it took was one look from her — and he was done for, again.