I can spot Jace Carter from across the room—and unfortunately, I do.

He’s propped against the arm of a couch, one foot on the floor, the other dangling, drink in hand like he’s too cool to stand. He’s got that look again. The one that screams, I’m better than all of you, and unfortunately, most people here eat it up.

Not me.

Jace and I don’t get along. Never have. Not since he made a smug comment during a group project and I told him where to shove his fake charm. We’ve been trading insults ever since. Petty arguments, sarcastic jabs in class, full-on eye-roll battles across lecture halls. He gets under my skin like it’s a sport—and he knows it.

So when he slides into the circle for spin the bottle right as I’m being dragged in by friends, I should’ve just walked away.

But I don’t.

The bottle spins. I watch it, already bracing for the worst.

It slows.

It stops.

Right. On. Me.

The room erupts. Laughter, shouts, clapping. I sit frozen, staring at the neck of the bottle like I can will it to move. But it's no use.

Across from me, Jace raises an eyebrow, unbothered. “Well. This is awkward.”

“I’ll pass,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Doesn’t work like that,” someone calls out. “Ten shots or a kiss!”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on mine. “You hate me that much?”

“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I just strongly prefer being nowhere near your mouth.”

He grins like I handed him a compliment. “It’s just a kiss. We can pretend it never happened.”

“Like I could ever forget something so scarring.”

He shrugs. “Then drink.”

I glance at the shots lined up. Ten. Tequila. No chaser.

I hesitate.

His smirk deepens. That smug, irritating confidence that always makes me want to throw things. He thinks I won’t do it. He wants me to back down.

Screw that.

I lean across the circle, grip his shirt, and kiss him.

It’s supposed to be fast, angry, just to get it over with. But he kisses me back—slow, steady, like he has nothing to prove, like he’s enjoying this way more than he should.

I pull away sharply, breathing hard, heat in my face.

His expression hasn’t changed, but his eyes are darker now, unreadable.

I narrow mine. “Do you always make things this dramatic?”

He tilts his head, voice low, calm. “Only when I’m into someone.”

My stomach twists.

I hate him. I hate him.

But now, I don’t know if I hate that kiss more… Or the fact that I liked it.