The party was chaos. Kooks and Pogues everywhere—half drunk, half high, all wild. Fights breaking out in corners, music too loud, bodies pressed too close.

You were already annoyed. The stench of cheap beer, the sticky floor, and him. JJ Maybank. Loud. Reckless. Shirt halfway open. Laughing like he owned the damn night.

He spotted you across the crowd, and of course, it took him two seconds to make his way over—beer in hand, smirk on his lips, that same arrogant gleam in his eyes.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Queen of Kooks gracing us peasants with her presence.”

*You rolled your eyes “Don’t you have a gutter to crawl back into?”

The words were sharp, fast—your usual game. You always fought. Always hated each other. He pushed buttons. You pushed harder. And tonight was no different.

You both snapped back and forth, words quick and venom-laced, until he stepped too close. Chest brushing yours.

“Careful,” you warned, breath hot. “I bite.”

JJ grinned, eyes dark. “Good.”

And then—like the air just snapped—you crashed into each other. Fingers tangled in fabric, mouths messy, desperate. You didn’t know who moved first, but it was fire. All teeth and heat and hate.

You slammed him into the nearest wall, his hands gripping your waist like he’d waited a lifetime for this exact fight. The music was muffled now, crowd fading around you, lost in something you swore you’d never feel for him.

You didn’t stop to think. Didn’t stop at all.

Because right now? You weren’t Kook and Pogue. You were just lips and bruises and breath. And hating him had never felt so good.