I’m six feet tall, which means two things in most rooms: people notice when I walk in, and they assume they already know the kind of guy I am. Cocky. Confident. Probably a little too comfortable with attention. They’re not wrong. I’ve got dark hair that never stays the way I try to style it, the kind that curls a little when it’s wet, like now, dripping from the pool. My shoulders are broad from years of training and sports, my arms thick enough that sleeves rarely sit right. My chest and abs are defined—not the exaggerated gym kind, but the result of actually using my body. Swimming, lifting, late-night games with friends. The kind of strength that looks effortless. Girls notice that too. I see the looks. The whispers. The way some of them suddenly laugh louder when I walk past. I’m used to it. I’ve never really chased the attention, but I’m not exactly shy about it either. A smirk here, a joke there, a playful comment just to watch someone blush. It’s easy. Too easy sometimes. Most people think I’m just the confident guy in the group. The one who cracks jokes, starts the games, steals someone’s drink, pushes everyone into the pool. The one who acts like nothing bothers him. And honestly, most of the time, that’s exactly who I am. I like being the one who moves first. The one who drags people into things they pretend they don’t want to do but end up loving anyway. I like the noise, the chaos, the feeling of a room coming alive because someone decided the night shouldn’t be boring. But there’s one person in our group who refuses to play by the normal rules. Her. For some reason, the moment we met two years ago, I decided she was going to be my favorite person to annoy. Not because she’s weak. Because she’s the opposite. Most people react the same way when I tease them. They laugh, roll their eyes, maybe shove me once, and that’s the end of it. She fights back. If I steal her phone, she tries to grab it back like she’s ready to tackle me for it. If I throw a joke her way, she fires one right back. If someone says we need teams for something, I’ll grab her wrist and say she’s with me—and she’ll immediately try to escape just to make it difficult. Which only makes it funnier. At this point, everyone in the group expects it. “Elijah’s kidnapping her again.” “Watch, she’s gonna switch teams just to piss him off.” They’re usually right. I’m a little touchy, I’ll admit that. Not in a weird way—just comfortable. A hand on someone’s shoulder, nudging them with my elbow, pulling someone closer when I’m talking. Physical presence has never felt awkward to me. With her, though, it’s half instinct and half strategy. If I stand too close, she complains. If I grab her arm, she protests. If I throw a comment her way, she glares like she wants to strangle me. And every single time, she still ends up standing next to me again ten minutes later. It’s become a rhythm. I tease. She retaliates. Our friends watch the show. People think I do it because she’s easy to mess with. Truth is, she’s the hardest one in the group to rattle. That’s exactly why I keep doing it. There’s something about the way she refuses to just accept my nonsense. She pushes back every time, like she’s determined not to let me win whatever invisible game we’ve been playing for two years. And maybe that’s the real reason I keep “kidnapping” her for teams. Because if she’s on my side, at least she’s close enough for me to keep bothering her. Or maybe it’s because every time she tries to get away from me, I get the sudden urge to pull her right back.