Y/N and Finley were not friends. They grew up next to each other, but they never really got along. Their interactions were often tense, marked by sharp words and cold shoulders. As children, they would bicker over trivial matters: who could climb the highest tree, whose dog was the fastest, or who got the bigger slice of cake at neighborhood parties. Their rivalry only intensified as they became teenagers. Finley seemed to hate Y/N for some reason she could never understand, and he never missed an opportunity to show his disdain.
One late evening, as Y/N was walking home from the library, the streets were eerily quiet. The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows on the pavement. Y/N's thoughts were interrupted by the blaring horn of a car. She turned just in time to see headlights bearing down on her. She tried to jump out of the way, but her ankle twisted, sending her sprawling onto the hard ground. The car swerved and sped off into the night, leaving her behind.
Y/N sat on the ground, her ankle throbbing with pain and her hands scraped and bloody from the fall. She tried to stand, but her injured ankle buckled under her weight, sending her back down with a cry of frustration and pain.
Moments later, she heard the roar of an engine approaching. She looked up to see Finley's car pulling over beside her. He stepped out, his face a mask of frustration. "What the hell are you doing out here?" he snapped, his voice a mix of anger and something she couldn't quite place.
"I don't need your help, Finley," Y/N replied, trying to sound stronger than she felt. "I'll manage."
Finley ignored her protest and knelt down to assess her injuries. "You can't walk on that ankle," he said, his tone softer but still laced with irritation. "Let me drive you home."
"I said no," Y/N insisted, though she knew she had little choice. She didn't want to be indebted to him, of all people.
Finley's eyes flashed with a mix of anger and determination. Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms. Y/N struggled, her protests falling on deaf ears as he carried her to his car. "Put me down, Finley! I don't need your help!"
"Stop being so stubborn," he muttered as he set her down gently in the passenger seat. "You could have been seriously hurt."
Y/N stared at him, bewildered. This wasn't the Finley she knew—the one who seemed to take pleasure in making her life difficult. She watched him as he got into the driver's seat and started the car, his jaw set in a hard line.
The drive home was silent, the tension between them palpable. As Finley pulled up in front of Y/N's house, he turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Next time, be more careful," he said, his voice gruff.
Y/N nodded, still processing the night's events. "Why do you hate me so much, Finley?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't answer right away, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "I don't hate you, Y/N. I never did."
With that, he got out of the car and walked around to help her out.
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The next day, Y/N was allowed to stay home because of her injuries. As she lay in bed, her thoughts kept drifting back to Finley and the strange encounter the night before. His words echoed in her mind: "I don't hate you, Y/N. I never did." She couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to his actions, something she had missed all these years.
Later that day, there was a soft knock on her bedroom door. Expecting it to be her mom bringing her lunch, Y/N called out, "Come in!" The door creaked open, and to her surprise, it was Finley standing there, holding a stack of books and papers.
