She hated him.

And not in the dramatic, eye-roll, “he’s so annoying” kind of way. No — she hated the way he never shut up, the way he acted like school was a joke, the way he sat on top of tables instead of in chairs like rules just… didn’t exist for him.

Everything about him screamed lazy. Trouble. One of those neighborhood boys who always had a loud group around him and smelled like weed, cologne, and bad decisions. Tattoos on his shoulder blades and one down his arm — thick, bold ink she was sure he didn’t earn the right way. Always wearing his hoodie half-off, sleeves rolled, like he needed the world to see his body.

She didn’t care.

She had better things to do. A future to build. A family that expected everything from her, and made sure she never forgot it.

So when their gym teacher made them partners for the self-defense unit — of all things — she nearly walked out.

“Him?” she asked, brows raised. “Seriously?”

He was already grinning. “Don’t act too excited, shorty.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s a fact.”

Their first attempt went terribly. She didn’t want to touch him, and he clearly enjoyed pissing her off too much to take anything seriously. She rolled her eyes through the warmup. He made dumb comments during the technique demo. The coach told them to “get it together or do ten laps.”

So they tried again.

She was supposed to push him back by the chest, and he was meant to show her how to twist out of a fake grab. But he wasn’t paying attention — again — and she shoved harder than she meant to.

He didn’t fall. He stepped forward to catch himself.

But she had stepped forward too.

And somehow — feet tangled, gravity betrayed them — she ended up on the floor.

Right underneath him.

His hand caught himself beside her head. One knee landed between her thighs. Her hair was in her mouth. Her breath hitched in surprise.

And he was there.

Hovering. Too close. Too heavy.

She glared up at him, flat and annoyed, ready to yell.

“Get. Off.”

“I’m tryin’, damn—”

His elbow slipped.

Their faces jerked forward.

Her lips were just parting to say something — maybe a warning, maybe a curse — and she moved them just a bit.

But before she could get the words out, their mouths collided.

Not soft. Not gentle.

Sharp. Electric. Like a jolt that sent a shock straight through her chest.

Their lips pressed together, tense and unyielding, caught in a sudden, charged moment neither wanted but neither could stop.

She moved her lips in the kiss too, just a bit — instinctively, awkwardly — adding a flicker of motion to the otherwise frozen tension.

Her heart hammered, breath caught somewhere between surprise and frustration.

His lips shifted slightly as well, uncertain but instinctive — matching the subtle motion she’d just made.

The room felt like it tilted, noise fading into the background except for the pounding in her ears.

Then, as suddenly as it started, she shoved him away hard.

They stumbled apart, faces flushed, eyes wide and wild.

“Yo—nah, nah, nah, that did not just happen,” he said, wiping his mouth like it burned.

She scrambled up, voice sharp. “You kissed me?!”

“You kissed me!”

“You fell on me!”

“I was tryna—man, whatever.”

She stormed off, breath catching, stomach twisting in a mess of anger and confusion.

The coach called out about teamwork.

She didn’t hear it.

He stayed kneeling, rubbing his jaw, muttering under his breath.

“Thin line.”

“Real thin.”