I should’ve said no. I knew I should’ve said no.

But the way she asked? That infuriating tilt of her head, voice sickly sweet like she wasn’t the same person who’s made my life miserable since the moment we met?

“Come on,” she’d said, smiling like a knife. “Let’s go on a double date. For peace.”

Peace. Right. That should’ve been my first red flag. We were never peaceful. We were World War 3 in the form of snark and eye-rolls.

So why did I say yes?

Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted to see how badly she’d fail at this fake truce thing. Maybe I just wanted to ruin her night for fun.

But then she showed up with them.

Her. My ex.

The same ex who ghosted me after two years together, who claimed she “wasn’t ready for commitment” and apparently was now ready enough to go on double dates with a guy who wore boat shoes unironically.

I looked at her. She looked at me. I felt my stomach drop somewhere near my knees.

And then I saw my enemy—let’s call her that because “girl who exists just to trigger me” is too long—and she was already settling into her seat like this was just another Thursday night.

I couldn’t let my ex see me rattled. Oh no. She wanted to move on? Fine. I’d show her just how over it I was.

I reached over and took enemy-girl’s hand.

She blinked. “What are you—”

“Babe,” I said, loud and clear, and watched my ex’s eyebrows shoot up like she just smelled drama on the menu. “Did I tell you how amazing you look tonight?”

The enemy stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “I—what?”

I leaned closer, ignoring her stiff posture. “You know I can’t resist that perfume,” I murmured, right against her ear. “What is it again? Toxic Manipulation by Chanel?”

She elbowed me. I winced. Worth it.

Across the table, my ex shifted. Her boyfriend said something lame about artisanal pickles. She wasn’t listening. She was watching us.

Game on.

I brushed hair off enemy-girl’s face and gave her the softest smile I could fake. “You always do this. Show up and steal all the attention.” I laced my fingers through hers. “I’m lucky I get to call you mine.”

She whispered, “I will kill you.”

I whispered back, “Do it after dessert.”

And then I kissed her temple.

Not because I wanted to. Not because I liked her. Just because my ex looked like she was trying not to clench her jaw.

Victory. Delicious, petty, chaotic victory.

Even if my “girlfriend” was glaring daggers at me under the table and silently plotting my murder.

Totally worth it.