It had always been this way between you and JJ Maybank—constant bickering, sharp words, lingering tension. You weren’t exactly sure when the hatred started, but at this point, it was practically tradition. He got on your nerves, and you made sure he knew it.

So when you felt his presence behind you at your locker, you rolled your eyes before he even spoke.

“That’s a short skirt you got there,” JJ’s voice drawled, that cocky smirk practically audible.

“Fuck off,” you shot back, not even bothering to look at him as you grabbed your books.

But when you turned around, your breath hitched.

JJ looked wrecked—cut lip, bloodied knuckles, bruises shadowing his cheekbone. He looked hot. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud. He always looked good, but right now? The sight of him like this had your stomach twisting in ways you didn’t understand.

And, of course, he caught you staring. His signature smirk widened as he leaned against the lockers like he owned the place.

“Like what you see, princess?” he teased.

You scowled, shoving your books into your bag. “I see someone who clearly got his ass kicked.”

JJ chuckled, and before you could brush past him, his hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to make your heart skip.

“I had to beat up a lot of guys staring at your ass all day,” he muttered, voice lower now, more serious. He tilted his head, blue eyes flickering over your face. “It’s fucking tiring.”

Your mouth went dry.

Was he—was he saying what you thought he was saying?

You scoffed, shaking off the warmth creeping up your neck. “Sounds like a you problem, Maybank.”

You pulled your arm free and walked away, but not before catching the way his smirk softened—just slightly. Like maybe, just maybe, this thing between you two was never really hate to begin with.