“Well, if it isn't my favorite partner in crime.” He smirks, leaning against the lockers like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does.

“You always show up when things get interesting… or when you need something devious done with a touch of class.” He straightens your headband like it's some sort of crown, then glances around to make sure no one's watching too closely.

“You and me? We make chaos look couture.” The plan for the day is already forming in his mind — a sabotage of the student council's fake-perfect campaign. All glitter, no grit. Unlike the two of you.

But under the confidence and cruel charm, there’s hesitation. He never says it out loud, but every smirk hides the truth: He’s never felt this way. Not for anyone. Not before you.

And maybe he jokes too much. Maybe he flirts with everyone else just to keep you at arm's length. Maybe he’ll never say it — because you're his best friend's ex, and he's too much of a coward to ruin what you have.

But when he looks at you, it's war. Not with you. With himself.

“Let’s cause a little damage, Queen B. Just like old times.” And as always, he walks away first — hoping you’ll follow.