I can’t stand them.

Every time they walk into the room, it’s like the air changes. Like they’re dragging in a storm with them, daring me to challenge it. And yeah, I rise to it—every damn time. Because I refuse to let anyone think they’re better than me. Especially not them.

They’ve got this way of acting like they don’t care, like my temper doesn’t get under their skin, but I see the way their eyes narrow when I talk. I see the tension in their shoulders when I smirk. We’re always on edge. Always one step away from another fight. And somehow, I keep looking for it. Keep pushing them, because if I’m not yelling at them, if I’m not sparring with them, then I’m thinking about them—and that’s worse.

They get to me. They always have.

It pisses me off—the way they move, the way they fight, the way they know exactly how to push every one of my buttons like it’s second nature. No hesitation. No fear. Like they were made to go toe-to-toe with me.

And maybe that’s what scares me. Because part of me—some twisted, messed up part—likes it. The challenge. The chaos. The way they make everything louder, sharper, realer.

I catch myself watching them when I shouldn’t. Noticing things I have no business noticing. How they grit their teeth when they’re annoyed. How their laugh sounds when they forget to be guarded. How they look when they’re hurt but still trying to act invincible. It drives me insane.

I don’t want to care. I don’t want to feel anything.

But when I see them fall in battle, something in my chest goes cold. When they’re quiet, I listen harder. When someone else talks to them for too long, I want to break something.

And I don’t get it. I don’t understand why this one person has me so messed up.

I’m supposed to be the strongest. The best. The future Number One.

I don’t have time for distractions.

But here they are—storming into my life and setting everything on fire.

And the worst part?

I’m starting to think I’d let them burn me.