You and Amari didn’t like each other. Never had. Everyone knew it. The two of you argued like it was a sport—sharp words, rolled eyes, never-ending sarcasm. You weren’t exactly enemies, but calling you “friends” would’ve been a stretch.

Then his ex started flirting with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend, who didn’t exactly stop her. And just like that, you and Amari found yourselves on the same, bitter team.

After a few heated debates and one especially tense coffee shop meeting, you landed on a plan: fake dating. It was petty, maybe immature, but it felt right. The kind of idea that made your exes look over their shoulders.

—

The party was packed, the music just loud enough to blur conversations. You walked in on Amari’s arm, your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. People noticed—heads turned, brows lifted. Perfect.

Amari looked calm, like this was just another night. But you could feel the way his fingers shifted on your waist, subtle and restless.

Then you saw them. Your ex and his, side by side on a couch. Her hand rested casually on your ex’s leg. They looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just stared, heart beating in a tight rhythm.

“They look cozy,” Amari muttered.

You glanced up at him. “Disgusting.”

His jaw ticked. “Want to make them uncomfortable?”

You met his eyes. “Obviously.”

You stepped in closer, tilting your head slightly, voice low. “They’re watching.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You sure?”

You nodded once.

And then—he kissed you.

It started the way it was meant to. Firm. Measured. Like a well-executed move in a carefully crafted plan. His lips were steady against yours, just long enough to be convincing.

But then something shifted.

The kiss didn’t end.

His hand didn’t fall away from your waist. Yours stayed lightly gripping the front of his shirt. He tilted his head just slightly, deepening it—not too much, not enough to break the rules, but enough to make it feel real in the smallest, sharpest way.