Caleb

It started like it always did: with a fight.

You and Caleb had hated each other for as long as anyone could remember. The rich, spoiled kids of an even richer private school, born into privilege and combat-ready egos. From the first day of middle school, when you showed up in a custom uniform and he insulted your shoes before the first bell rang, it was war. Not violent, not even personal—just constant.

You were the only person in school who could match him in every way. Style, sass, GPA, power. You didn’t argue—you sparred. You didn’t talk—you insulted each other with flair and vocabulary far too expensive for your age. Teachers dreaded seating you near each other. Your classmates lived for it.

And yet, there was something else.Something neither of you acknowledged.Something electric that built with every hallway insult and every eye-roll that lasted a second too long.

You told yourself it was hate. That Caleb’s cocky smirk and stupidly perfect hair made your blood boil. That your heart didn’t flutter—no, it fumed.

But then came that day.

You were leaning against your locker, iced coffee in hand, scrolling through your phone like you weren’t waiting for him. And right on time, he strutted up, radiating arrogance in his stupid tailored jacket and boots that probably cost more than your entire skincare routine.

“Nice shoes,” he said smoothly. “Did your grandma knit them for charity?”

You didn’t look up. “Funny. I was going to compliment your face, but I forgot I don’t lie.”

He laughed—a low, amused sound—and leaned beside you like he belonged there. Like last week, he hadn’t screamed at you in the student council meeting for “ruining the gala’s aesthetic” with your “criminal taste in flower arrangements.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” he said casually.

“You wish.”

He turned, really looked at you. That pale blue stare that could freeze someone, or set something on fire.

“You know what your problem is?”

You sipped your drink slowly. “That I’m too hot, too smart, and too well-dressed for this school?”

He smirked. “You hate that I’m the only one who talks back.”

“You’re not special,” you scoffed.

“No,” he said, voice dropping. “I’m right.”

And then it happened.

He stepped closer.

You took half a step back, but the lockers behind you stopped you.

His hand brushed your jaw. Just enough to make your breath hitch. Not enough to stop this.

“If I kiss you,” he whispered, “will you finally shut up?”

You opened your mouth to retort—something scathing, something dramatic—but it never came.

Because he kissed you.

And God, it was fire. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. It was a challenge. A push. A pull. His lips were soft but demanding, like he needed to prove a point, and you were too proud to back down. You kissed him back just to win.

When you broke apart, your iced coffee hit the floor with a dull thud.

You stared at him. Breathless. Confused. Furious.

“I still hate you,” you managed.

He grinned like he’d just won a trophy. “Good. I’d hate for this to get boring.”

And then he walked away like it was nothing.

⸻

The next day was hell.

Not because anyone saw—but because you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The kiss. Him. What it meant. You’d barely slept. Couldn’t eat. It was like your brain was infected with Caleb. Gross.

You walked into class late, only to find him already there. Relaxed. Cocky. Wearing your favorite color on him—dark green, soft, expensive, and infuriatingly flattering.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even smirk. He just slid a note across the desk like it was still 2005.

You hesitated, then opened it.

“Meet me on the rooftop after class. Or are you scared?”

You almost crumpled it on instinct.But when the final bell rang, your feet were already moving.Of course you weren’t scared. You just… needed answers.

The rooftop was painted in gold and cotton candy by the setting sun. He was already there, leaning against the railing like he lived in a coming-of-age film.

“You came,” he said.

“I had nothing better to do,” you replied, arms crossed.

He pushed off the railing and stepped toward you. “So what is this? We kissed, and now what? You ignoring me forever, or planning the wedding?”

You blinked. “Please. I don’t date people I fight with.”

He tilted his head. “Then I guess we’ll never be boring.”

“Why’d you kiss me?” you snapped.

He shrugged. “I got tired of imagining it.”

You hated how your chest clenched at that. How soft his voice sounded, even though his words were cocky.

“Well, it was a mistake.”

“Sure,” he said. But he didn’t believe you.

And then he stepped even closer. Closer than he had in the hallway. His hand found yours, this time slower. Not rough, not arrogant. Just there.

“I meant it,” he said. “The kiss. I didn’t do it to win.”

You didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

He leaned in again—just barely brushing your lips like he was giving you a choice.

You closed the gap.

This time, it was different. Slower. Still electric, still sharp—but with something warmer underneath. Something neither of you could name yet.

When you finally pulled back, your heart was hammering.

He smirked. “So… still hate me?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping away before you did something dumb like smile.

“If you’re going to kiss me every time we argue,” you said, “you better clear your schedule.”

He laughed. “Baby, my whole week just opened up.”