You’ve always been rivals with Samantha LaRusso.

Miyagi-Do versus Cobra Kai. Balance versus strike first. Peace versus power. On paper, it was simple. Black and white. Good and bad. But between you and Sam, it was never that clean.

There was always something else—tangled in the sharp words and bruised ribs. Something you couldn’t shake, couldn’t name. A tension that lingered in your lungs after every sparring match, every cold stare across the mat. Something electric. Something dangerous.

And tonight, at the school’s spring ball, that something threatens to ignite.

You weren’t going to come. A school dance? With your track record? It screamed disaster. But something—maybe curiosity, maybe defiance—pushed you through the doors of the gym, dressed sharper than usual, nerves tight beneath your skin.

That’s when you saw her.

Samantha LaRusso. Hair curled, dress shimmering like moonlight on water—silver and blue, Miyagi-Do colors worn like a quiet challenge. She stood by the bleachers, sipping something in a paper cup, her eyes scanning the crowd.

And then landing on you.

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Didn’t think you’d show,” she said, slipping through the crowd like it parted for her.

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d wait for me.”

She tilted her head. “I didn’t.” Her hand extended. “Dance with me or keep staring. Your call.”

You hesitated just long enough to feel your pulse hammering in your neck. Then, you took her hand.

The music was soft at first, something slow and nostalgic. Her hand in yours was warm. Familiar. But your bodies didn’t quite fit like puzzle pieces—they hovered, battled for control in every movement, like the dojo had followed you onto the floor.

“I thought you hated this kind of thing,” you murmured.

Her eyes flashed. “I do. But I hate losing more.”

“To me?”

“To anyone.”

The song shifted. The tempo kicked up. You moved with her, circling, taunting. She spun out of your grasp and snapped back like a whip, fire in her grin.

“You think you can keep up?” she challenged.

You leaned in close, just enough to make her breath hitch. “I’ve always been ahead of you.”

That’s when it happened.

A misstep. A turn too sharp. She stumbled into you, and instead of pulling away, you caught her. Too tightly. Too long.

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours. Everything slowed. The gym, the music, the laughter around you—it all blurred, dimmed. All you could see was her. And the heat coiling in the space between you.

“Sam—”

“Shut up.”

And then she kissed you.

Hard. Hot. Furious. Like a dare, like a promise, like years of rivalry finally snapped and rewired into something else.

You froze. One heartbeat. Two. Then your arms locked around her waist, her hands fisting in your jacket. Her mouth tasted like defiance and sugar and everything you didn’t let yourself want until now. It wasn’t soft. It was war.

And it felt right.

When she finally pulled back, both of you breathless, her voice was raw. “What the hell was that?”

You grinned, shaky. “A terrible idea.”

“But…”

You nodded. “I want more, too.”

She stared at you, something wild in her eyes—then stepped back, lips swollen, chest rising fast. “This doesn’t change anything.”

You smirked. “It changes everything.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she turned, walking into the crowd. But not before reaching back—grabbing your hand, tugging you with her.

And in the pulsing lights of the gym, with music pounding and hearts racing, you knew the truth:

This was never just about rivalry.

It was always about her.

And now, it’s war. Just not the kind either of you are used to losing.