You weren’t looking for him. You never were. But Ben had a way of making himself impossible to ignore.

He was standing in the middle of the hallway like a confused penguin in a button-up shirt and slacks, frozen in place, staring at the massive splatter of mustard across his chest.

“Seriously?” you muttered, glancing down at the stain. “What did the hot dog do to you?”

Ben flinched and looked up, his jaw tightening when he saw it was you. “I don’t have time for your commentary, okay? I have an interview in twenty minutes and I’m screwed.”

You rolled your eyes but something twisted annoyingly in your chest. Probably pity. Or the memory of how hard he’d studied for that Yale alumni meet-and-greet. Or maybe it was how pathetically cute he looked right now with mustard trauma and no backup plan.

“Come with me,” you sighed, grabbing his arm without thinking.

“What the hell? I didn’t—”

“Shut up. Just move.”

You dragged him toward the lockers, the both of you catching curious stares. Not because you were together, obviously not. Because you hated each other. Publicly. Loudly.

Your lockers were next to each other—cruel irony. You twisted yours open, yanked out the neatly folded extra shirt you kept for gym class, then turned to him.

“Hold this.”

He blinked down at the soft black tee in his hand. “This is a women’s—”

“It’s gender neutral, you asshole. Or are you too fragile to wear something that doesn’t scream testosterone?”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but you were already dragging him again—this time straight into the girls bathroom like it was no big deal.

“{{user}}” he hissed. “This is literally illegal.”

“You’re literally embarrassing,” you snapped back, locking the door behind you. “Shut up and change.”

You turned away, setting your bag down and beginning to unbutton your blouse. Ben caught it in the mirror—just a flash of skin, the line of your collarbones, the smooth dip between—

“Gross,” you said sharply. “Shirt. Off. Now.”

He startled, clutching the shirt you’d given him like it might save his soul. “I—I’m—” he stammered, finally unbuttoning his ruined shirt with awkward fingers, all while trying not to stare. But he was failing. Badly.

Your blouse slid off your shoulders, revealing the thin tank top beneath it. You didn’t care. You’d worn less at the beach. But Ben? Ben looked like he’d just discovered religion and porn at the same time.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flitting down your chest and back up like he knew he was going to hell for it.

You snorted. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut him off, turning around and catching him in the act. His shirt was half on, his cheeks burning. “Lucky for you, my shirt doesn’t scream I’m a girl, so you won’t lose your precious masculinity.”

He opened his mouth to fire back, but the shirt was soft, clean, and smelled faintly like your perfume.

He shut up. For once.

You leaned against the sink, arms folded, watching him tug the tee down over his chest. The fit was… way too good. Annoyingly good. You hated how broad his shoulders looked. You hated how cute he looked with that stupid pout of his still stuck on his face. You hated how close you two were.

And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t hate it enough.

“You’re welcome,” you said, turning toward the mirror to re-fix your hair.

Ben, still staring at your reflection, muttered something under his breath. You barely caught it.

“What?”

He swallowed. “Thanks. I mean it.”

You turned to face him, raised a brow, and smirked. “Don’t fall in love with me, Ben.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes trailing lower again before darting away. “Little late for that.”