She hated him the moment they met. He was too sharp, too smug, too good at making her fists clench for all the wrong reasons.

“You’ll never win,” he said once, grinning like a god who liked the sound of hail and thunder.

She **demonstrated** otherwise by sweeping his legs out from under him and walking away before he could catch his breath.

But hatred hat a heat to it, a tension they couldn’t **incapacitate** no matter how many times they tried to tear each other down.

The first time they kissed was mid-fight, blood on her lips, his hand in her hair, teeth clashing like war drums. It wasn’t gentle. It was a declaration, a truce written in bruises and breathless moans shared between them. They were still enemies, except now, they shared a bed and the occasional knife fight.

He whispered her name like it was a secret, and she bit his shoulder to keep from screaming his. They never said ‘love’, but they **solidified** it in every broken rule and stolen moment.

And somehow, that was enough for them.