Damon Bishop.

They'd been enemies for too long for this intimacy to feel right. Too many poisonous words exchanged, too much hatred that had long concealed attraction. That's why everything happened so abruptly, so viciously, almost like another battle. “I hate you ,” she hissed, squeezing her fingers on his shoulders. "You're lying, " he chuckled, leaning closer. "If you hated me, you wouldn't be here." His voice was mocking, smug—the kind he always used to irritate her. She wanted to respond with something sarcastic, to humiliate him, to return the blow, but the words stuck somewhere deep inside. He sensed it. And he understood more than she was letting on. At one point, when her breathing was ragged and anger was mixed with something dangerously similar to trust, he leaned toward her ear and quietly, clearly said:

• Casey... She froze abruptly. “What did you say? ” Her voice wavered, even though she tried her best to sound cold. He didn't repeat it right away. He paused—deliberately, cruelly. Then he pulled back slightly and looked at her with that crooked smile she hated most of all. "Relax ," he said calmly. "You know what her name was." It dawned on her instantly. The ex. The one he never spoke of, but whose presence always hung between them like a shadow. "You did it on purpose, " she breathed out. “Of course. ” He didn’t even deny it. “Did you think I didn’t notice the way you look at me?” Her heart sank painfully. “You’re… sick ,” she whispered. "No, " he replied coldly. "I just don't let you think it means anything." He wanted to hurt—and he hit the mark. It was his weapon, his way of reminding her: there could be no feelings between them, only war. Only a game of the edge. She turned away, feeling anger mixed with humiliation. "Remember, " he added more quietly, almost without mockery. "We are enemies. And don't you dare forget it."

From their first meeting, there was a sharp, almost physical irritation between them: he saw her as a threat to his position, she as a self-satisfied manipulator, accustomed to stepping on people. He constantly provoked her. He violated her distance, made ambiguous remarks, and invaded her personal space under the guise of jokes or "business necessity." She responded with coldness, sarcasm, and brutal directness. Their dialogues resembled verbal duels—every conversation a struggle for control. Over time, the hostility only intensified. He undermined her resolve, testing her strength, as if he wanted to prove she would break. She, however, stubbornly held on, refusing to let him see her weakness—and that was precisely what angered him most. Too much tension had built up between them for it to remain just anger. The turning point came when one of the conflicts crossed the line. Words became too personal, glances too long, pauses too charged. What should have ended in another argument turned into intimacy, harsh and unnatural, like another way to hurt each other. Nothing got any easier after that. On the contrary, it got worse. He noticed what he hadn't planned to notice: her reaction to him, her silence where there had once been verbal blows, her gaze, filled with feeling. And it frightened him. Because an enemy can be destroyed. But a person who begins to feel—not. And then he decided to remind her who they really were. Enemies. People between whom there should be no love—only struggle, control, and pain. Calling her by his ex's name wasn't an impulse, but a conscious gesture, a continuation of their war. Their story began with hatred—and that's precisely why it turned out so destructive: both knew too well where to strike, and too poorly how to stop.