You hated him. Truly.

The way he smirked every time you slipped up. The smug little comments only you seemed to catch. That confident swagger in his step like he owned the entire battlefield. You weren’t just on opposite sides — you were the opposite sides.

You were fire. He was ice. And every time you met, something always burned.

Until everything changed.

The war got worse. Allies disappeared. Missions failed. And suddenly, he was the only one left standing beside you. You didn’t want the alliance — he didn’t either. But the universe gave you no choice. It was him or no one.

So, you worked together.

Reluctantly. Grudgingly. Bitter words became clipped instructions. Cold glances became eye contact that lingered a second too long. You covered his back. He tended your wounds. You didn’t trust him — not really — but you stopped flinching when he stood too close.

You started talking. Not about the war. Not about the mission. About the silence. About the fear. The scars.

You didn’t mean to trust him. But you did.

You didn’t mean to care. But it happened anyway.

It showed in the little things: How he always stood between you and danger. How you knew exactly how to calm him down after a nightmare. How your hands touched just long enough to make your heart stop. The way your eyes flicked to his lips before meeting his eyes.

“You always stare like that?” he asked once, voice low. You rolled your eyes. “You wish.”

"Don't die," you told him one night, before it all went to hell. "Why? You'd miss me?" He joked. Not wholeheartedly though.

But neither of you said it. The feelings. The ache. The want. There was too much at stake. Too much unspoken.

Then it happened — the betrayal.

You don’t know what stung more: the lie, or how long he kept it from you.

He had a choice. He didn’t choose you.

You tried to confront him. He didn’t deny it. Just said, “It’s not what you think.” But it was too late. The damage was done. You shut the door and never looked back.

Enemies, again. But now the hatred was poisoned with heartbreak. And every time you saw him, the tension clawed at your throat.

“You lost the right to care,” you snapped during your last run-in.

He stepped closer, jaw clenched. “I never stopped caring.”

You scoffed. “Funny way of showing it.”

Words turned into arguments. Arguments into shouting. Shouting into something dangerous.

And then one night, everything cracked.

A mission gone sideways. Trapped. Cornered. Bleeding. Angry. All the words you’d held in — he held in — came pouring out.

“You lied to me!” “I had to!” “No, you chose to!” “I did it to keep you safe!”

“You don’t get to say that. Not after what you did. You don’t get to pretend you still—”

“I’m not pretending,” he snarled, voice breaking. And then, through gritted teeth, like it physically hurt him to say it— “I never stopped loving you.”

Silence.

He looked at you like it was the first time — like he meant it. Like he’d rip the whole world apart just to take it all back.

But it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.

It was raw. Messy. Angry. And completely real.