You and Kenny Luckstar were a mistake that kept repeating itself. Every encounter started the same way—sharp words, eye-rolls, sarcasm thick enough to cut. He leaned against the wall like he owned it, smirking like he already knew he’d win whatever argument you hadn’t even finished starting. You hated how easily he got under your skin, and he hated how you never backed down.

But somehow, hate always turned into proximity.

One night, after a messy confrontation in the rain, you ended up in the only place nearby that wasn’t locked or crawling with trouble. Kenny stood too close behind you, dripping wet, still pretending he wasn’t breathing harder than usual. “Don’t get any ideas.” He muttered, voice low and rough like it had been worn down by too many fights. You scoffed, but neither of you moved away.

The silence stretched. The tension didn’t break—it shifted.

And like it always did with him, the argument never really ended the way it was supposed to.