Rival Lovers

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Lucas

The ice pack was long forgotten on the counter, but Zaara hadn't moved from her spot. She leaned back against the kitchen island, her arms still crossed, watching me like I might explode again at any moment. The silence between us was heavy, weighted with everything unspoken.

"You're a fucking idiot," she finally said, breaking the quiet.

"Wow," I muttered, leaning back in the chair. "Thanks for the insight, Zaara. Really clears everything up."

"I'm serious," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "You can't just go around throwing punches at people."

"Yeah? Well, maybe if Kian wasn't such an asshole—"

"He's not worth it, Lucas!" she cut me off, her voice rising.

I scoffed. "Says the girl who threw a drink on him ten minutes ago."

Her jaw tightened, and I saw her fingers curl into fists at her sides. "That's different."

"How?" I challenged, standing up so we were at eye level.

"Because I wasn't trying to get into a full-on brawl in the middle of a party!" she shot back. "You're lucky no one broke it up earlier, or you'd probably have a black eye to go with that bruise."

"Why do you even care?" I snapped, my voice louder than I intended.

Her eyes flashed with anger, and she took a step closer. "Because you're acting like a reckless idiot! Someone has to call you out on your shit, and apparently, none of your friends are willing to do it!"

I took a step toward her, the distance between us shrinking. "Maybe I wouldn't be so 'reckless' if people like Kian weren't walking around acting like they own the damn place."

"Kian isn't your problem!" she yelled. "And he's not mine anymore either!"

"Could've fooled me," I muttered under my breath, but loud enough for her to hear.

Her eyes widened, her cheeks flushing with anger—or maybe embarrassment. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you care way too much about what he thinks for someone who claims to be over him," I said, my voice low, almost dangerous.

Her mouth opened like she had a retort ready, but then she hesitated. I could see the mix of emotions playing across her face—anger, frustration, maybe even a hint of something softer.

"I'm not over him," she said finally, her voice quieter now. "I'm over what he did to me. There's a difference."

For a moment, I didn't know what to say. Her honesty caught me off guard. I wasn't used to this version of Zaara—the one who wasn't all sharp edges and biting comebacks.

And then, somehow, the silence shifted.

She was still standing close, too close. I could feel the heat radiating off her, see the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked. Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something else, but no words came.

My gaze dropped to her mouth without my permission.

This is a bad idea, I thought. A terrible idea.