Despise Me with Equal Adoration

* One year ago *

POV Serena

The summer before senior year is supposed to belong to me—SAT prep books stacked on my desk, college essays waiting to be drafted, a future I can still shape with my own hands.

Instead, I find myself wandering through Westmont Prep's abandoned hallways, hunting down the one person on this planet who makes me want to commit a felony.

Your mother's best friend asks you for one favor, Serena. One.

Catherine can't reach her precious son. Lacrosse practice ended an hour ago, but Caleb isn't answering his phone. And somehow, somehow, that's my problem.

Our parents have been inseparable since childhood. Catherine is my godmother. My grandfather walked her down the aisle when her own father refused to come.

They raised us side by side, convinced we'd grow up as close as they were.

They never noticed when it all went wrong.

I pass the trophy case where Caleb's lacrosse photo sits front and center, that infuriating smirk preserved behind glass. Six years of cruelty hidden behind family dinner smiles.

"What's wrong, princess? Going to cry to Mommy? Oh wait, she’s…"

The boys' locker room door is propped open. Steam drifts out, carrying the scent of soap and something unmistakably intimate.

I hear a feminine moan before I see anything.

The wet sound of mouths and skin meeting, echoing off tile walls. A low, masculine laugh that I recognize instantly, the sound burrowing under my skin and settling somewhere it has no right to be.

Turn around, Serena. Text Catherine that you couldn't find him. Walk away.

My feet carry me forward instead and through the gap in the door, I see them.

Jade Richards perches on the edge of the sink, her volleyball jersey pushed up to expose the flat plane of her stomach and her huge tits. Her legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, pulling him closer.

And Caleb… right there. Stands between her thighs in nothing but a towel that hangs dangerously low on his hips.

Water still clings to his shoulders, catching the fluorescent lights, turning his skin into something that belongs in a museum, not a high school locker room. The muscles in his back flex as he moves, and I hate—hate—that my mouth goes dry at the sight.

His hand cradles the back of her neck with this possessive gentleness that shouldn't exist in someone who spent six years making my life hell.

His mouth drags down her throat, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring every inch.

"Caleb, someone could walk in."

"I don’t give a fuck." He doesn't stop. His teeth graze her collarbone and she gasps, fingers digging into his bare shoulders. "Let them see."

His other hand slides up her thigh, disappearing beneath her shorts. Whatever he does makes her back arch off the mirror, a sound escaping that's pure, unfiltered want.

I should leave. I should definitely, absolutely leave.

Instead, I stand there like an idiot, heat flooding through my body in waves. Face first, then chest, then lower, settling between my thighs with a pulse that makes me want to die of shame.

This is disgusting. He is disgusting. You hate him.

This is Caleb Thornton. The same jackass who put gum in your hair freshman year. Who told everyone you stuffed your bra. Who made that horrible joke about your mom at Derek's party.

But my body doesn't seem to give a shit about our history, too focused on the way his hips roll forward, pressing her harder against the sink. The sound she makes—raw and desperate—twists something in my chest.

Is this what it feels like? To be wanted like that? To have someone look at you like you're the only thing that matters?

The thought is a betrayal, so I shove it down. Right before my shoulder bumps the doorframe. The sound is small, but in the thick silence between their gasps, it carries.

Caleb's head snaps toward the door.

Move. Now!

I shove through before my brain catches up, letting the door swing wide, forcing my expression into irritation rather than the hot shame crawling up my throat.

"Your mother's been calling you for an hour, asshole." My voice comes out flat, steady. A miracle. "Our parents need us both at my house for dinner tonight. Apparently it's something important."

Jade scrambles off the sink, yanking her jersey down, her face flushed crimson. But Caleb doesn't move. He leans against the tile wall, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me.

His eyes travel over my face—the flush I can't hide, the rapid pulse jumping in my throat. A slow smile spreads across his mouth.

"Enjoying the view, princess?" His voice is rough, lower than usual.

"I wasn't—" The denial dies in my throat because we both know it's a lie.

Jade grabs her bag. "I should go. Coach will kill me if I'm late."

She brushes past me with a knowing look—caught you—and then the door swings shut, leaving me alone with Caleb and all this steam making everything feel too close, too warm, too much.

"You could have texted," he says, pushing off the wall.

"Catherine asked me to find you. I found you. Message delivered."

"Is that what we're calling it?" He takes a step closer. "Because it looked a lot like you were watching."

"Long enough to be disgusted."

"Disgusted.” His laugh is low and dark. “Right."

Another step in my direction. Close enough now that I can see water droplets sliding down his chest.

"Then why are you still here, Lakin?"

Because my feet won't move.

Because some broken, traitorous part of me wants to know what it would feel like if he looked at me the way he looked at her. Wants to know what it would feel like if he’s pressed…

"I'm leaving. Don't be late for dinner."

"I'll drive you home."

"I have my bike. Still not in the mood to sit on some used condoms in your car."

"Suit yourself, princess."

Fresh air and movement, Serena. Good for the body, good for the soul.

My mother's voice rises unbidden—the way she'd say it while climbing onto her bicycle, even during chemo when she could barely stand.

I'm out the door before he can see whatever expression has taken over my face. The ride home takes twenty-three minutes. When I pull into the driveway, Caleb's car is already there.

Dinner passes in a blur of small talk and forced smiles, but something feels different tonight. Catherine keeps touching my father's arm—not the comforting pats of a grieving friend. These touches linger.

And he leans into her palm in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

They've been spending so much time together since Mom died. Since Caleb's father vanished with every dollar the Thorntons had.

I thought they were holding each other up through the wreckage. But watching them now, I notice what I've been too grief-blind to see. The way their eyes meet across the table and hold for a beat too long, carrying a conversation I'm not invited to.

When the dishes are cleared, no one moves to leave.