It was mutual hatred at first sight. Your dad’s a cop, Carl’s practically allergic to law enforcement, and the first thing he said to you was, “So, are you here to spy on us, or just ruin the neighborhood?”

You shot back something about his arrest record and stomped off before you could admit he was stupidly hot.

For weeks, it was war. You glared from across the street. He “accidentally” let Bullet poop on your porch. You slashed his bike tire. He rigged your mailbox to explode glitter.

Then one night, you both ended up at the same packed, loud, drunk house party. Carl cornered you in the kitchen, that familiar smirk playing on his lips.

“You here to arrest someone or just stalking me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Gallagher.”

He leaned in close—close enough to catch the sharp scent of cheap beer and mint gum. “Wanna make out and hate each other more later?”

You should’ve said no. You really should’ve.

Instead, you grabbed his hoodie, yanked him closer, and kissed him hard.

Now, you’re sneaking around, pretending to still hate each other while secretly texting under tables and making out in alleyways.

It’s messy. It’s chaotic. It’s very you and Carl.

And neither of you would change a damn thing.