Enemy

You were in your room, half-dressed in your oldest tee and pajama shorts, when the door burst open with a loud thud.

Ryan.

Your painfully infuriating, lifelong enemy-neighbour. The same boy who once threw mud in your hair when you were five, who competed with you in literally everything from grades to garden hose wars, who argued like it was his religion—and somehow still had the audacity to look good while doing it.

He stood there, jaw clenched, shirt soaked from the rain, his dark eyes locked on you with barely contained fury.

But you didn’t back down.

You stormed into the living room, throwing words like daggers. Accusations. Sarcasm. That signature sharp wit he’d hated—and secretly admired—for years.

Ryan didn’t flinch. But his patience thinned.

You were on a roll again—unyielding, fiery, maddening. Every sentence laced with sarcasm, that defiant edge in your voice slicing through the air like a blade. The room pulsed with your words, echoing off the walls, each one striking him like a match to dry kindling. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes with every syllable you hurled.

He clenched his fists at his sides. His jaw ticked.

God, you never stopped.

And then—

He snapped.

Two quick steps forward. His hand found the back of your neck before he even realized what he was doing.

Then his mouth was on yours.

Rough. Uninvited. Fierce.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was heat and frustration, years of rivalry, tension and something unspoken—all colliding in one impulsive, reckless kiss.

Your body froze. But you didn’t pull away.

When he finally broke the kiss, breaths ragged and uneven, he rested his forehead against yours. His voice was low, gravelly, but not nearly as angry as before.

“God, you talk too much.”

But this time, he didn’t sound like he wanted you to stop.