Keenan

You've spent four grueling years in college dodging Keenan like he's a plague, but fate—or whatever cruel joke the universe is playing—keeps shoving him into your path.

Every shared class feels like a battlefield, his presence a constant thorn twisting deeper with each passing semester. The tension between you two crackles like a live wire: to you, it's pure aggravation, a simmering frustration that boils over into outright hatred. He can't stand you, and the feeling is mutual, sharp and unrelenting.

But to everyone else? They see sparks flying and whisper about forbidden romance, like your mutual disdain is just some twisted foreplay. As if. Graduation looms this year, a golden escape hatch. You'll scatter to opposite ends of the world, lives diverging without a backward glance.

Thank god for that.

Your shared circle of friends complicates things, though. You've mastered the art of avoidance, timing your hangouts to never overlap with his. They eat it up, laughing at your 'will-they-won't-they' dynamic like it's prime entertainment.

But today, they drop the bomb: a two-week escape to the Bahamas, a pre-graduation blowout to toast the end of it all. Of course Keenan's on the list—who wouldn't be? Still, the allure of turquoise waters and endless sun overrides your dread.

You nod along, booking your spot without a second thought.

—

The humid air hits you like a wall when you step off the plane, carrying your luggage through the dimly lit resort lobby.

Six of you in total, splitting three rooms—simple math, right? Nadia thrusts a keycard into your hand with a sleepy grin, and you pocket it without a glance, your eyelids drooping heavy.

The group shuffles toward the elevators, exchanging half-hearted goodnights before peeling off to their floors.

You trudge down the hallway alone, the carpet muffling your footsteps, and swipe the card at your door. It beeps green, and you push inside, the cool blast of AC a small mercy.

The room is dimly lit by a single lamp, shadows playing across the king-sized bed dominating the space. And there, unpacking a duffel on the dresser, stands Keenan.

He's all height and menace even in repose—towering at least six-three, his broad shoulders straining against a fitted black tee that clings to the ridges of his muscled chest and abs, etched like they were carved from stone.

Tattoos snake up his brown-skinned arms, intricate ink disappearing under his sleeves: symbols, skulls, scripts.

His low afro is freshly faded, tight coils catching the light, and he moves with that signature hood swagger, nonchalant as ever. He glances up, locking eyes with you, and his jaw clenches tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

"Funny," he mutters, voice a low rumble like distant thunder, deep and edged.

Your glare could melt steel as you stand frozen in the doorway, the weight of your suitcase suddenly feeling like an anchor.

You spin on your heel, scanning the empty hallway for any sign of Nadia or the others—anyone to trade keys with and salvage this nightmare. But the corridor stretches silent and deserted; they've all vanished into their rooms, crashed out from the jet lag. No escape. You turn back, irritation etching lines into your face, exhaustion making your words slur just a bit.

"I'll switch in the morning," you snap, voice flat with fatigue. Right now, sleep is the only priority; dealing with him can wait till dawn.

Keenan doesn't respond at first, just watches you with those cold, unreadable eyes—dark brown, piercing under thick brows.

Then, without a word, he kicks off his sneakers and flops onto the bed, claiming the entire damn thing. His long frame sprawls out, legs stretched to the footboard, one arm thrown behind his head, exposing the tattooed expanse of his bicep. The mattress dips under his weight, and he takes up space like he owns the whole resort.

You drop your purse and bag with a thud on the tile floor, staring him down. "Are you for real?"

He doesn't even twitch, just smirks faintly at the ceiling. You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, stomping over to the bed. The proximity hits you like a slap—his scent lingers in the air, a mix of weed, cologne, and something distinctly him, earthy and invasive.

You plant your hands on the edge of the mattress and shove at his solid shoulder, the muscle unyielding under your palm. "Move," you demand, voice laced with steel.

He shifts just enough to make room on his side, propping up on one elbow to eye you sideways. That smirk deepens, provocative and infuriating. "Don't act like you ain't excited to be close to me, ma," he drawls, the words dripping sarcasm, his deep voice vibrating through the space between you.

Heat flares in your chest—pure, unfiltered rage. You snatch a pillow from the headboard and swing it at his chest, the soft thwack echoing in the quiet room. "Keenan, I am not in the mood."

He catches it mid-air with one hand, effortless, his fingers wrapping around the fabric like it's nothing. His gaze rakes over you then, slow and assessing, from your rumpled travel clothes to the exhaustion lining your face.

There's no warmth in it, just that cold detachment, but the tension thickens the air, electric and suffocating.

You ignore him, sinking onto the far edge of the bed to kick off your shoes. Your fingers work quickly, gathering your hair into a bonnet, the routine a small anchor in the storm of his presence.

Keenan finally settles, rolling onto his back again, but not before reaching behind his ear for the blunt tucked there like an extension of himself. He flicks a lighter—gold, engraved with some symbol—and sparks it up, the flame illuminating the sharp planes of his face. The earthy smoke curls upward immediately, filling the room with its pungent haze.

Your head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. Without thinking, you lunge across the bed and snatch the blunt from between his lips, the paper warm against your fingers. "Are you dumb?" You jab a finger toward the smoke detectors blinking innocently on the ceiling, their red lights a stark warning in the dim room.

His brows furrow deep, that nonchalant mask cracking into something sharper, aggressive.

He sits up slowly, the bed creaking under his weight, his tattooed arm flexing as he reaches for it. "Who you feelin' like, snatchin' my shit like that?" His voice drops lower, a gravelly growl that sends a shiver down your spine—not fear, exactly, but the raw edge of his temper brushing too close.

You pull your hand back, holding the blunt out of reach, your heart pounding harder than it should.

The room feels smaller now, the king bed no buffer against his looming frame. "Smoke that shit outside," you shoot back, matching his intensity, though your voice wavers just a fraction from the exhaustion.

He leans in closer, invading your space without touching, his deep voice a low snarl. "You think imma listen to what a bitch say?”

The word lands like a punch, ugly and loaded, slicing through the tension like a knife.

Your body goes rigid, blood roaring in your ears, every muscle coiling tight with the urge to unleash hell.

He sees it instantly—the fire in your eyes, the way your fists clench at your sides.

He's crossed the line, and he knows it, that cold facade flickering with the realization that he's just ignited a powder keg in this shared hell of a room.