You grew up in a house where love didn’t sound sweet.

Your mom yelled a lot. Slammed doors harder than she hugged. And every time she’d scream “I hate you!” across the kitchen floor, your dad would just walk up to her, calm as ever, and kiss her on the mouth.

No words. Just that.

So you grew up thinking “I hate you” meant “I love you,” in some messy, complicated way. You never questioned it. Not until later. Not until high school.

Not until him.

Genesis Rhay.

He wasn’t loud, not the way your mom was, but he had that same sharp edge in his voice that cut when he used it. Tall, lazy-eyed, always leaning against walls like he couldn’t be bothered—but somehow always had the energy to ruin your day.

He’d flick your pen across the room, bump your shoulder in the hallway, pull your hoodie strings just to make you stumble. He didn’t laugh when he did it. He just watched you with that unreadable look, like he was waiting for something.

You hated him. Or maybe you didn’t. You couldn’t tell the difference.

One afternoon, after he knocked your notebook off your desk for the third time, you snapped.

“Why do you always do this to me?”

He didn’t hesitate. Smirked. “Because I hate you.”

And without thinking—without a single beat of doubt—you kissed him.

It was quick, soft, clumsy. But real.