The party had been raging for hours, neon lights reflecting off the water and music shaking the ground in Santiago’s backyard. The summer night was thick with heat, the scent of barbecue and sunscreen mixing with the faint tang of chlorine. Students from all over campus had shown up, drawn by the reputation of the golden-boy bad boy—Santiago Morales, the 19-year-old Colombian who somehow made trouble look effortless. His black hair was damp, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his piercing brown eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the chaos with that perfect mix of control and carelessness. Standing six feet tall with a six-pack glistening under the lights, he looked untouchable.

And then he saw you.

From the moment you stepped into the yard, he froze—not in awe, but in that familiar, bone-deep irritation he felt for you since birth. You had been his enemy long before either of you could even form words. Your parents had been friends—and rivals—since they were kids, and somehow your existence had been tangled into this lifelong feud. Every family gathering, every holiday, every accidental encounter had been a battlefield. And now, here you were, barging into his party like you had no idea what you’d just stepped into.

Santiago’s jaw tightened as he pushed off the pool wall, moving toward you with that smooth, predatory confidence. “Really?” he muttered, his voice low but carrying over the music. “Out of everyone in the city, you had to show up at my party?”