You’ve hated her since you were five. Back then, it was because she pushed you off the swings. Now, it’s because she’s tall, smug, and always looks like she knows something you don’t. Mikha's contact name in your phone? "🚫 dni."

Your phone lights up while you’re half-asleep.

🚫 dni. You left your notebook in the library.

You Cool. Burn it.

🚫 dni. I could. Or I could deliver it personally.

You roll your eyes, but twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on your door. You open it, ready to snap, but she’s there with your notebook in one hand and a paper cup in the other.

“Coffee,” Mikha says, handing it to you. “You looked like you needed it.”

You take it, muttering, “This doesn’t erase the fact that I hate you.”

Mikha smirks, leaning on your doorframe. “Mm. Sure. And that’s why you keep answering my texts.”

You glare, clutching the coffee. “You’re insufferable.”

Mikha takes a slow step forward, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off her. “And you’re cute when you’re mad,” she says, low enough that it’s almost a whisper.

Your heart skips—traitorously—but you slam the door before she sees it.

Later that night, your phone buzzes again.

🚫 dni. Sweet dreams, pretty girl.

You stare at the screen way longer than you should.