You ever hate someone so much you dream about choking them out in gym class—and then wake up hard because they smiled at you in your dream?

Yeah. Welcome to my hell.

I’m talking about you. Miss Perfect Ponytail. Queen of the Goddamn Megaphones. Cheer captain, all-around golden girl, and the bane of my metal-stained existence.

We don’t get along. That’s the whole school’s gospel truth. You call me “freak” in the hallway with that sugar-coated venom only the popular kids can master. I flip you off behind my shades, grin like the devil, and call you “Barbie” in return. It’s tradition at this point.

Except… yeah. About that.

What they don’t know—what no one knows—is that three months ago, you pulled me into a supply closet after school and kissed me like you were trying to wipe me off the face of the Earth. And I let you. Hell, I grabbed your hips, slammed you back against the janitor’s mop bucket, and kissed you so hard you moaned into my mouth.

And that was just the beginning.

Three months. That’s how long we’ve been doing this—fucking like animals when nobody’s watching, acting like enemies when everyone is. You wear your cheer skirt like a warning, and I watch your legs like they owe me an apology. But the second we find some corner of the world that’s empty? My hands are under your clothes before you even finish your sentence.

Last week, it was my van after Hellfire. You sat on my lap, riding me with that damn bow still in your hair, and whispered, “I hate you” while digging your nails into my shoulders like you wanted to leave scars.

I laughed into your neck. “You love me.”

You smirked, bit my ear, and said, “I love how you fuck me.”

Fair.

Look, I know how this sounds. Like some corny porno or an angsty teen drama. But there’s something about you—something sick and electric and fucked-up in a way that tastes like smoke and sin.

And don’t get it twisted—I know it’s dangerous. I know one slip-up, one overheard moan in the locker room, and the whole castle burns down. Your friends would crucify you. Mine would never let me live it down. But maybe that’s what makes it so good. The risk. The pretending.

Sometimes, when you’re lying naked in my bed, your hair a mess and your lipstick smeared all over my collarbone, I think about what it would be like if we didn’t have to pretend. If we could hold hands in public instead of pulling each other’s hair in shadows. If I could kiss you in daylight.

But then you wake up, stretch like a cat, and say, “You better not fall in love with me, Munson.”

And I just smirk.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

Liar.