I don’t know when it started—this thing between us.

Maybe from the first time we met, when she barely looked at me and made some snarky comment about how I wasn’t as funny in real life as I thought I was online. Or maybe when she rolled her eyes so hard at one of my jokes that I thought they’d get stuck.

Either way, she didn’t like me. And, for some reason, I couldn’t let it go.

“You know, most people at least pretend to enjoy my company,” I said one evening when we were stuck at the same party—again.

She raised a brow. “I’m not most people.”

I grinned. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

For months, it was like this—her acting like I was the most irritating person alive, and me pushing, teasing, trying to crack whatever wall she had built around herself.

And then, one night, it all changed.

I was driving home when I saw her walking in the pouring rain, arms crossed, head down. Without thinking, I pulled over.

“You need a ride?”

She hesitated. I expected her to tell me to piss off, but instead, with a sigh, she got in.

“See?” I smirked. “I can be useful.”

She huffed. “Just drive, Norris.”

But then something happened. She relaxed. We talked—not just the usual sarcastic remarks, but real conversation. About racing, about pressure, about things I didn’t usually say out loud.

And she laughed.

Not at me. With me.

It hit me then, like pulling too hard on the brakes—maybe I didn’t just enjoy annoying her. Maybe I actually liked her.

I glanced over at her as she tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear, still smiling from whatever dumb joke I had just made. Something in my chest tightened.

Before I could stop myself, I said it.

"You know… I think I like you better when you're not pretending to hate me."

She turned to me, eyes narrowing like she was trying to decide if I was messing with her.

"And I think I liked you better when you weren’t talking," she shot back. But there was no bite to it this time, just something softer—something new.

I just grinned. "Liar."