I'm just gonna leave this here

***

I stared studiously at my laptop, because it was mildly less embarrassing for Lena to think I was a shameless nerd than for her to catch me staring at legs or face or general body. It was generally unfair that she had been blessed to look the way she did. Was someone upstairs trying to conspire against me? Surely they could've given her a weird nose, some Tony Abbott-esque ears and, I don't know, cankles.

I'd definitely still be into Lena Montez with cankles, but it might make the process slightly less difficult.

She would tease me for it forever, if she knew. And if she knew why? I would never hear the end of it.

Did you finally figure out that the only way to exorcise me from your life is to thrust something that disgusting and gag-worthy upon me? Wow, Hartley, I admire your dedication, and I'm going to express that by puking on your shoes.

Her current mocking was a slight improvement on that potential outcome.

"Jace, I physically cannot sit here and do this project for another second. I'm so bored my brain cells are killing themselves in protest. They've gone on a very dramatic and likely permanent strike."

I looked up at her with an amused smile. I could never help that smile. Thankfully, Lena was stubbornly idiotic enough to think it was teasing and cruel.

"I didn't realise you had any brain cells still operating," I replied. Because I had to. Because she expected me to. Because if I didn't make fun of her, I had very little to excuse to wander around after her pathetically like a lost puppy. "This is like discovering an extinct species is still kicking. Should we do conservation work? How can we help them multiply?"

Lena shook out her loose curls; they fell in a waterfall down her back, a few stray short ringlets framing her face. Clear blue eyes twinkled with restrained laughter, and the corners of her lips were tilted upwards, always poised to break into a brilliant smile. She always smiled, unless she was hanging out with me. Then her expression could usually be described as murderous, bloodthirsty and slightly disturbing in its intensity.

But now it was sunny and pleasant and felt like a decade's worth of niggling pain had vanished. Because we were tentatively friends. It was like a lifeline, a single bright spot, and I was pathetic enough to believe it was salvation.

"Har, har," Lena said mockingly. "You're so funny. Have you considered stand-up comedy? That would really send the species of my brain cells extinct."

"Didn't we agree to be friends today? This seems like bullying. You're being rude. Daria would be so disappointed."

Lena gasped. "Don't you dare invoke the name of Daria! I would never want to disappoint Daria."

I didn't mention that Lena had been disappointing Daria for, well, a decade or so. I mean, it was hardly a secret that I kind of sort of maybe liked Lena. A lot. It was embarrassingly and painfully obvious to everyone, and a consistent source of teasing from my classmates, parents and, at one mortifying moment in my life, a teacher. But Daria, painfully sweet and caring, hadn't been willing to let me hide from that fact. Instead, she'd befriended Lena and given me reasons to spend time with her for years.

Because she was, objectively, the best.

Unfortunately, Lena still thought I was a habitual murderer of puppies and joy, so it hadn't quite worked out in my favour.

"Besides, can you even disappoint Daria?" Lena asked thoughtfully. "Or would the negative emotion just like, shrivel up and die inside of her eternally positive bubble of optimism." Lena diligently dipped a carrot in dip. "I think I'm like, 95% in love with her."

"She is a very nice person."

"Nice doesn't even begin to cover it," Lena said. "She is like a divine goddess. I can't even believe she's human. No one is that nice. Not even you."

My stomach fell away. "You think I'm nice?"

Lena frowned. "Well, obviously not. But everyone else does." She poked me experimentally in the chest. "You have deceived them all with your false niceties!"

Then she bit into her carrot. The tiniest blob of dip stuck to the end of her nose, and she rubbed it away with the edge of her sleeve. She scrunched her nose in mock disgust and pouted slightly, and it was so fucking cute, and I was definitely staring. I tore my gaze away and fixated on the laptop screen.

C'mon, Jace. Lena isn't cute. Lena is rude and stubborn and she doesn't like you. In fact, she mostly hates you. And she reminds you of that fact often. So why can you never seem to get it through your thick head?

Well, that was because she was also funny and charming and really, really hot. Not that the last part was supposed to be important, but it sure helped. Like, she was six feet tall, gorgeous and had the legs of a supermodel. Life was unfair.

The only way I could cope was reminding myself, over and over again, that Lena hated me. She had never given me any reason to think otherwise. And if I tried to fool myself into thinking I had a shot? Well, then I really must hate myself. Because that was just heartbreak waiting to happen.

I tried to concentrate on the project, but it didn't last long. Lena was apparently incapable of shutting up for twenty seconds at a time. "This project..." she announced. "Makes me want die."

"It's not that bad. You get to hang out with me, your new best friend." Maybe I did hate myself. Are you fishing for something here, Jay? I could almost hear Daria saying.

Clearly, the waters were good today. Because Lena gave me a smile—small, almost bashful, as if she were embarrassed to admit it—and said, "True."

She leant over my shoulder, putting down the book to examine the computer screen. I could feel the soft brush of curls against my shoulder, and the warmth of her cheek near mine, and I made a pointed effort not to look backward. Nothing to see there, Jace. Don't look. She hates you. Remember? She hates you.

When she bent forward to pick up a carrot, I might have looked. Not that it could be proven in, like, a court of law.

"This platter is literally incredible," she said, tilting back in her beanbag, mercifully further away from me. "Good job, Mr. Gordan Ramsey."

"I am the master of cutting up things and putting them on a plate. My talent is next level. Who needs Natia?" Because yeah. Lena Montez had a chef.

"Oh, I do," Lena insisted, her eyes wide and insistent. And yeah, I was looking at her again. Hates you, Jace, Daria's voice reminded me in my head. "She's phenomenal. Literally the best, like, Jamie Oliver could never. You should totally try her stir fry." She was grinning, kneeling on her beanbag and bouncing slightly. She closed her eyes, dark eyelashes fluttering, as if appreciating an imaginary taste.

Hate, hate, hate. How many times does she have to remind you, Jace?

Then Lena opened her eyes and smiled at me; her real smile, the one she saved for everyone but me, and she patted my arm lightly. Hate. "Hey, you should stay for dinner. You have to have it. It's literally so good."

...not hate?

"You want me to stay for dinner?" I could hear a certain thickness to my voice. It felt as if the world around me was moving slowly, like molasses. Only Lena was moving normally, the focal point, beautiful and funny and sweet, but none of that mattered, because she hated me. Except now she was inviting me to dinner, asking me to be there, and I didn't know how to be there when she wanted me to be.

Lena pursed her lips. "You have to," she said, hesitantly, as if I were a bomb rigged to explode. And I felt like that. I felt as if I was going to burst, and I had no idea what the consequences would be. Whether the shrapnel would destroy her, or if it would destroy me. But it felt as if it had been slowly digging into my skin for a decade. "Natia's stir fry is a religious experience."

I couldn't think. I just shut the lid of my laptop; I hardly needed it now. Nothing would distract me from Lena now.

Because she wanted me. My presence. Would voluntarily spend time with me. Was she messing with me? Was this some elaborate prank to stick a snake down my pants, or send a scorpion after me?

But her expression was cautious and tentative and completely unbridled, and it made me want to pull her close and bury my face in the curls spilling down her shoulders. But I couldn't do that. She hated me. She did.

"What is this, seriously?" My jaw tightened. The tone spilling from my lips was unfamiliar, angry. But Lena had turned everything I thought I knew upside down, and if it was in some attempt to mess with me, I needed to know now. Before I fooled myself into thinking something idiotic. Ridiculous. Before she tricked me into hope. "A few weeks ago, you trashed my bedroom. You were weirded out that I was pleased to see you weren't dead."

As if I hadn't spent months desperate and devastated, scared that I would never see her again, or that she wouldn't be the Lena I remembered.

Lena just stared at me, wide-eyed. But I couldn't stop. "I gave you one 'nice to see you didn't die' hug, and you accused me of witchcraft. You've had years to make nice for Daria. Why now?"

Lena had shrunk in her seat at my outburst, but she raised to her full height now. She was beautiful, even when I thought, for the first time in my life, that I might even hate her, just a little bit. But the stubborn tilt to her jaw was so achingly familiar it almost melted the edges of my confused rage.

"I mean, firstly, it was super weird that you were pleased to see I wasn't dead," she said. I opened my mouth to protest, but she was already continuing. Lena would never let me get the last word. "But also, you've started to be nice to me too! That was super weird. You used to complain about my presence, and now you smile at me. So, I could ask you the same question back."

I wanted to scream at her. How could she not know? Surely, she knew. She had to; it was so painfully obvious. I had been smiling secretly at Lena Montez for years, and everyone had seen it.

"I never wanted you dead," I said. My legs were itching with the need to move, to do something. Because if I didn't expend this energy, I was going to do something very, very stupid with it. I looked back at her; all gorgeous indignance and anger to match mine. How could she think that I would ever want to see her dead? As if it wasn't one of the worst things I could imagine? "Why would you even think that? That's exactly why I was being nice to you; because you were almost dead. Did you think I wanted that?"

Because the moment I'd seen her face, after months of worry and stress and a lingering tension, I couldn't pretend to loathe Lena Montez for another second. Even if she dropped her interest in me; even if she no longer cared. I was so relieved, so thankful.

But she... I turned to look at her. "Did you want me dead? I asked.

Lena grinned slightly. "Maybe a little maimed." She was leaning back in her beanbag, teasing; recognising how worked up I was and stoking the fire. "But I can't make fun of you if you're dead. That might be a little mean."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so the past decade isn't you mean?"

"Maybe a bit, but it doesn't look as bad when you're alive to hit back."

She was... incorrigible. Determined. Ferocious. And I loved her and hated her for it in equal measure. "This is a joke to you, isn't it? You can't take anything seriously. You never have."

She stood up at that, her expression serious. We were almost eye-to-eye; Lena was a tall girl, all long legs and elegant lines, but I still had an extra few inches on her. I knew she found it aggravating. There was a time I thought she'd grow to be taller than me. It wouldn't be hard; she was easily clearing the six feet mark. But a last minute growth spurt had given me this edge, and I loved how much it bothered her.

She stared me down. "I have always taken our feud with the utmost seriousness."

Well, that was true. It was kind of adorable, how serious she was about it. How dedicated, how passionate. And that was why I pushed her, encouraged it. She was dedicated to being in my presence as long as she was dedicated to hating me. But right now? I hated it. Hated myself for it. I hated that I'd made her hate me, had never tried to change her mind.

I couldn't help but laugh, but the sound didn't belong to me. It was dark and angry, self-loathing and, for once, some of that anger might have even been directed at Lena. I had never been angry at Lena.

I stepped closer to her, unbearably close. I could feel the heat of her body, the tension effusing every line of her frame. "What did I ever do to you?" I asked, and it was almost a plea. Because I knew. I knew what I'd done to her. I'd made her hate me, because I knew Lena Montez like the back of my hand. And I knew what to say to make her mad, what to say to make her fume and rage and snap at me.

"Everything," she said breathlessly. Her eyes were blown wide, the pupils dilated as she stared up at me.

"Everything I did, you did it all back. You hit back, every time. Tenfold. For a decade, Lena. So why this?" Because that was the real question. I had made her hate me, forced it. I knew her. But I didn't know this. This strange friendship, where she asked me to stay for dinner. Not for pranks or cruelty, but to simply be with her. I didn't understand why. "Why this faux-friendship? Don't tell me it's for Daria. This is not about Daria. What do you want from me?"

She stepped even closer to me, and I knew that I stood dangerously close to the precipice of doing something stupid. Something so unbelievably stupid. "I want everything," she said, her words an echo of my thoughts and feelings and desires since... well, for as long as I could remember.

"There is no other girl on this planet like you, Montez," I whispered. No one as outrageously funny, or unbearably stubborn or painfully gorgeous. Or idiotic. "Seriously. Probably because if anyone else was this insufferable, they would've been murdered by now."

Lena grinned a little. "Oh, yeah. That's definitely it." But then she looked at me consideringly, head tilted, challenging. It made my blood boil, that familiar expression. Asking me to rise to the challenge, to her expectation of who I was. And I had never been able to help rising to it. "Do you know what insufferable means, Hartley? It means too extreme to bear. Am I too much for you? Can you not handle me?"

I didn't bother telling her that it was all I had ever wanted, because she'd probably make fun of me. With many creative and colourful adjectives and analogies. Sometimes, it was very difficult being in love with a girl who was unbelievably smart and witty. It was truly a death to one's self esteem. But I could cop it, had been forever.

It also helped that I spent most of my time with Daria, who could make anyone feel like they had sunshine and rainbows shooting out of their asshole.

But Lena... Lena made me feel that way too. Despite the quips and jokes and rude comments about my face, personality and general disposition, I had never felt anything but light contentment with her. "You are the most insufferable girl I have ever met," I said truthfully. "But you will never be too much for me."

"I know," she said, and her voice was breathless. I thought I might have been a little lost in her gaze, but god, I didn't mind. "I keep trying to push you, to be too extreme. To get you to fall over that edge. But it's never too much. What's your limit, Hartley? How far do I have to push?"

This. This was my limit. Her eyes were pinning me, her lips almost touching mine, and after a decade, my stranglehold on everything I felt was loose and unrestrained. She was looking at me, and I could think of nothing but closing the distance. And her eyes were saying yes, and I thought she might even let me. I didn't know how, or why, or who had somehow blessed me to allow me this opportunity, but I sure as hell had no intention of wasting it. "There's no other girl on this planet like you," I said again.

She leaned into me, almost imperceptibly, and my willpower was shot to hell.

"I think I want to kiss you."

I knew. I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything in my whole life. But I needed her to want it to. To say yes. "And I want you to," she said. And it was possibly the best thing I'd ever heard.

Before I could crush her to me, pull her in and kiss her like I'd imagined for years, she was backing me against the wall. I almost smiled, because I loved her, and this was so her. She was pressed against me, and I tried to think of things that had nothing to do with that fact, or else that could be even more embarrassing, and I didn't want to be embarrassed. I just wanted her.

This is the best thing that has ever happened to me, I thought. And possibly the worst idea ever.

But when she linked her arms around my neck and pulled me down, my thoughts were not what would happen afterwards, or trying to avoid the potentially awkward teasing that could always follow having a girl like Lena pressed into my body. All I could think was, holy fucking shit, I'm about to kiss Lena Montez.

And when she kissed me, I could think of nothing at all.

I groaned into her mouth, and the sound of her gasping against me careened through my mind like a relentless echo. I kissed her softly, wanting to memorise every inch of her skin against mine, to catalogue the sound at the back of her throat when my lips brushed over the corner of hers.

It was a moment I had imagined a thousand times, and I thought she might want to kill me for kissing her like this. Because with every gentle kiss, I was telling her I loved her. With every brush of lips against her, I was telling her I had never hated her, could never hate her, and that I needed her to not hate me back.

It felt as if the world was tilting under me; as if I'd downed half a bottle of vodka, and couldn't tell up from down or remember my own name. It didn't seem necessary; I didn't see the need to remember anything but this.

She ripped away from me, and I felt the loss of her like a severed limb. "Show me too much," she said, her eyes wild, hair mussed and lips a soft pink. "Show me extreme."

I'd never been one to back down from a challenge. And I had never been one who wouldn't oblige anything Lena Montez asked of me.

I grabbed her waist, the soft curve fitting easily into my palm, and I flipped her backed her against the wall. The hard lines of my body fit against the soft curves of hers, and oh god, she could definitely tease me about this later, because there really was no hiding how much I wanted this. But Lena didn't seem to mind; she was staring up at me, demanding, and when I kissed her again, it was with a decade's worth of longing and fire and passion.

I clenched the strands of her curls around my fingers, curls I'd admired and loved forever, winding them around my palms, pulling at it as she buried her hands in mine. When she made a faint noise, I think I might have groaned. She kissed me like she hated me, and I kissed her like I loved her, but it didn't matter, because it was hot and fiery.

She was really fucking good at it too. Which, of course she was, because Lena was good at everything.