Everyone thought you hated each other. And you didn't blame them.

At school, Joseph Descamps never missed a chance to shoot a cruel remark your way—sharp, laced with that signature smirk and smug brow raise. You’d roll your eyes, snap back, and storm off like clockwork. It was a game.
No one saw how his hand would brush yours under the desk during detention. Or how, in quiet corridors between classes, he’d press you against the wall and kiss you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

You were fire and ice in public—bickering, glaring, impossible to imagine even standing side by side.

But behind locked doors, his hands trembled on your skin. His mouth found yours like a bad habit. His voice, once venom-laced, softened into something almost desperate when he whispered your name.

Like this morning.

You’d planned it—sealed with a glance in the hallway the day before.
So you came early, heart pounding as your shoes echoed down the quiet corridor. The classroom was dim, lit by pale morning sun. He was already there—leaning against a desk in the corner, cigarette half-finished, eyes soft when they met yours.

He didn’t say a word. Just pulled you in like it had been years.

"You’re two minutes late, ma chérie," he muttered, though the smirk on his lips gave him away. You rolled your eyes, but before you could speak, he kissed you—slow and hungry.