The hate between you and Rafe wasn’t just a rumor—it was common knowledge. It bled into every corner of the island, thick in the air like humidity before a storm. Everyone knew. From classmates who’d watched the sparks fly in high school hallways, to coworkers who now exchanged uneasy glances whenever you passed each other in the office.

Time had passed. You both grew up. Found jobs. Coincidentally—or maybe cruelly—you landed positions in the same company. His office was right next to yours, separated by nothing but a thin wall and mutual disdain. Every single day, you were forced to breathe the same air, pass each other in the hall, exchange glares that burned hotter than any tropical sun.

And it wasn’t just surface-level animosity. This wasn’t petty bickering or silent treatment. It was something deeper. Raw. Sharp. Hate, in its purest, most unfiltered form. The kind of hate that didn’t fade over time—it festered, evolved, became something twisted and electric. It made work unbearable. It made breathing around him feel like a test of willpower.

Tonight had been a long day. You just wanted to go home. To walk in the rain, let it wash off the stress, then curl into warm sheets and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. The storm outside matched the storm inside—dark, restless, hungry for peace.

You stepped into the elevator with a sigh, pressing the button for the ground floor, letting your body relax for the first time all day. And then—he stepped in too.

Rafe.

Of course.

That damn smirk played on his lips as he glanced at you. But, unusually, he said nothing. Just stood beside you, silent. The tension inside that small elevator car was immediate—thick and heavy, almost tangible. The elevator moved painfully slow, dragging time like it knew the two of you needed to stew in it.

“You need a ride?” he asked, breaking the silence.

You didn’t even look at him. “No. I’ll walk.”

“It’s pouring,” he said. “I’d hate for your makeup to smear, after the 22 minutes you spent fixing it up in the bathroom.”

That did it. You turned to him, eyes sharp, arms crossing tightly. “Has anyone ever told you that you have stalker-like tendencies?”

He scoffed, giving you that infuriating half-laugh. “So says the girl with serial killer eyes.”

“Yeah. I get those only when I imagine strangling you,” you snapped.

Then the elevator lurched to a stop. You reached for the door, but he leaned over and hit the button—sending the elevator back up.

You stared at him, brow raised. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders tense.

“God,” you muttered, trying to laugh off the sudden shift, “Calm down. I’m not actually going to strangle you—”

“What are we doing?” he interrupted, voice low.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” he said, stepping closer. His body hovered over yours. His presence swallowed the elevator. “This game we play. Every single day. Like we’re still in school, pushing each other’s buttons because we don’t know how else to exist.”

“You mean the game where we hate each other?” you asked, heart beginning to thrum a little too fast.

He studied you then, really looked. “Do you really hate me?” he asked. The way he said it—quietly, intensely—unsettled something inside you.

Silence followed. A silence that wasn’t empty, but loud with questions neither of you dared to say out loud. Your eyes locked. Something shifted. The line between hate and something else—something deeper, darker, hotter—blurred.

And then you both moved.

Like a match to gasoline, your lips collided in a kiss that was desperate, unrestrained, years of venom and tension pouring into every second. His hands gripped your waist, firm and possessive, shoving you back until your spine met the cold elevator wall. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, needing, claiming.

Ding

The elevator chimed, breaking the moment like shattered glass. You both froze, lips still close, breath mingling.

Reality returned with brutal clarity.

As the doors opened, the unanswered question hung between you like smoke:

Was it hate… or was it desire?