James had forgotten how loud his mother's house was.
The clatter of pots, the smell of garlic and sesame oil, the hum of the old ceiling fan — it all hit him the moment he stepped out of the shower. He tugged on a hoodie, pulled sweatpants over still‑damp skin, and padded downstairs, rubbing at his tired eyes.
He'd been on a plane for fourteen hours. He wanted food, sleep, and absolutely zero bullshit.
He got bullshit immediately.
He reached the bottom step just as the front door opened. A familiar voice drifted in — cocky, careless, annoyingly deep.
Jake.
James froze.
No. No way. The universe wouldn't do this to him on day one.
His mom's cheerful voice followed. "Jake, honey! Come in, come in. You'll be staying here for a couple weeks, okay?"
James blinked. *Staying here?*
He stepped into the living room, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair still dripping.
And there he was.
Jake Kim.
Two years older. Two times more irritating. And somehow ten times hotter than James remembered, which was deeply unfair.
He was sitting on the couch with a gorgeous girl tucked under his arm — long hair, perfect makeup, the type of girl Jake collected like trophies.
James walked right past them, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Jake's head snapped up instantly.
"...James?"
James stopped mid‑stride. He turned slowly, jaw tight. "Jake?"
Jake stood, eyes dragging over him in a way that made James's skin prickle. "What the hell happened to you?"
James frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You look…" Jake hesitated, which was weird enough. Jake never hesitated. "Different."
James crossed his arms. "People change. You should try it sometime."
Jake smirked — that same infuriating smirk he used in high school whenever he wanted to get under James's skin. "Still got that attitude, huh?"
"Still got that ego, huh?" James shot back.
The girl beside Jake cleared her throat. "Um… you two know each other?"
Jake didn't answer. He was too busy staring at James like he was trying to figure out a math problem he'd never studied for.
James shifted, uncomfortable. "Stop looking at me like that."
Jake leaned back slightly, eyes still locked on him. "Like what?"
James didn't have an answer.
Because he didn't know how to describe the way Jake was looking at him — confused, irritated, and something else he couldn't name.
His mom clapped her hands loudly. "Good! You're both here. Jake, sweetie, you'll stay in the guest room. James, help him settle in."
James whipped around. "Mom—"
But she was already grabbing her purse.
"I have a business trip. Be nice to each other. Don't burn the house down. Love you!"
The door slammed behind her.
Silence.
Jake's girlfriend stood awkwardly. "Maybe I should go…"
Jake nodded quickly. "Yeah. I'll walk you out."
James rolled his eyes. "Of course you will."
Jake shot him a look — sharp, annoyed, but underneath it… something else. Something James didn't recognize.
Something Jake didn't either.
The door closed behind them.
James exhaled, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Fuck my life."
He turned toward the kitchen — and nearly jumped when he saw Jake standing in the doorway, alone.
James blinked. "Where's your girlfriend?"
"Went home," Jake said, voice low. "She didn't like the… vibe."
James snorted. "Yeah, well, I don't like the vibe either, but I'm stuck with it."
Jake stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "You really hate me that much?"
James opened his mouth — then closed it.
Because the truth was complicated.
He didn't hate Jake.
He hated the way Jake made him feel.
He hated the way Jake used to tease him.
He hated the way Jake looked at him now — like he was seeing him for the first time.
James swallowed. "I don't hate you. I just… don't want to deal with you."
Jake's jaw tightened. "Right."
He turned away, but not before James caught the flicker of something in his expression — hurt? No. Couldn't be.
Jake Kim didn't get hurt.
James watched him walk down the hall, broad shoulders tense, and felt something twist in his chest.
Great.
Just great.
They hadn't even been in the same house for ten minutes, and already everything felt dangerous.
And neither of them had any idea how much worse — and better — it was going to get.