CHAPTER 12
“Are you still mad at me?” Harper asks, her full attention fixed on me as I ignore her, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other rests on the windowsill.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she continues. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I just wanted to have fun. You’re a grown-up—you get to go to parties, and I don’t.”
“Are you making excuses for your behavior?” I ask, glancing at her briefly before returning my eyes to the road.
“No, it’s just…” She trails off, sighing as she stares down at her hands like they might offer her answers.
“You’re lucky I didn’t tell Mark.”
“Yeah, I know. And I’m grateful,” she says quickly. “I’m never sneaking out of the house in a short dress to party with seniors again.” She pouts, batting doe eyes at me.
We may not be related by blood, but I’m protective of Harper—and she knows it. I don’t let boys talk to her, and I sure as hell don’t let her talk to boys. I pretend not to care sometimes, give her the cold shoulder, act like an asshole, but the truth is simple: I care. A lot.
She’s sweet. Carefree. Kind to a fault. Trusting. Everything I’m not.
She’s the little sister I never had.
“Okay,” I say after a beat. “But you should never have sneaked out to party with Jenn.”
“Gwen,” Harper corrects instantly, shooting me a playful glare.
“What?”
“Her name’s Gwen. Not Jenn. Seriously, how is that hard?” She scoffs. “Gwen. Gweennnn.”
A small smile tugs at my lips as I pull up outside Crestview’s pristine entrance. Through the windshield, students spill out of luxury cars, uniforms pressed and perfect. Harper’s friend—pigtails bouncing—walks toward my car with an eager grin.
“I gotta go,” Harper says, opening the door. She pauses, leaning back in through the open window. “You have practice after school?”
“Yeah. Call Mom to pick you up.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, Dakota,” Gwen says, offering a polite smile and a small wave.
I nod once, already rolling up the window.
Through the glass, I watch Harper link arms with her friend as they merge into the crowd heading toward Crestview Prep’s double doors.
I reach into the glove compartment, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. One cigarette slips easily between my lips. I light it, sinking back into the leather seat—too expensive for my liking—and inhale.
The nicotine hits my brain.
And for a moment, everything else quiets.
I feel good—better than I did an hour ago—as I take a few final drags of my cigarette.
I pull the butt from my lips and crush it into the small ashtray in my car before turning off the engine.
From the glove compartment, I take out a small bottle of cologne and spray a little on myself, just enough to mask the scent of smoke.
I step out of the car, shut the door, and sling my backpack over one shoulder before heading toward the doors of Crestview Preparatory.
The hallways are quieter than usual. Most students are already in homeroom or seated in their classrooms, the building humming softly with distant chatter and footsteps.
It’s Monday.
The day I’m expected to carry out Hayes’s dare.
On Saturday, at our so-called team bonding party, I agreed to a one-on-one game with my worst enemy—and I lost. Part of me knew I would. But that stubborn, competitive side of me, the one that refuses to back down from Hayes Griffin, convinced me otherwise.
The dare is impossible. And unfair.
Hayes dared me to skate a full lap around the rink after school—blindfolded. At full speed. Without crashing into the boards. To make things worse, he would be my guide, shouting directions from the sidelines.
And if I fail—if I crash, hesitate, or back out—I’ll have to apologize to Hayes in front of the entire team. For challenging him.
But if I win?
He’ll do whatever I want.
The moment he laid out the dare, I argued. Told him it was reckless. Told him it was bullshit. Hayes just laughed, smug and taunting, and told me I could back down if I wanted.
And now—standing here, walking through these halls—I’m seriously considering it. Backing down. Because putting my life in the hands of my enemy? Letting Hayes Griffin blindfold me and guide me?
That’s beyond stupid.
We hate each other. We can barely exist in the same space without wanting to tear each other apart. And Hayes isn’t the kind of guy who passes up an opportunity to take advantage of weakness.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
He knew I’d rather risk breaking my neck than swallow my pride and apologize.
Speak of the devil.
I round the corner, my eyes already fixed on my locker—and there he is.
Hayes Griffin. Leaning against it like it belongs to him.
His left hand is tucked into his uniform pants pocket, his attention focused on his phone as he scrolls casually, completely at ease. Like he isn’t the reason my chest feels tight right now.
Of course he’s here.
I grit my teeth and keep walking, that familiar mix of irritation and something far more dangerous twisting in my chest.
God, he looks good.
His hair is slightly tousled, short bangs parted down the middle, and falling just over his eyebrows.
I hate that I notice. Hate that I can’t not notice.
The Crestview Prep uniform looks like it was tailored specifically for him—the dark blue blazer, the gray pants hugging his long, lean legs just right.
Even with his tie perfectly knotted, he looks unfairly flawless.
Like a god.
And I hate him for it.
I hate that I notice every little thing about him—but I do. It’s like every part of Hayes Griffin is engineered to get under my skin. The cocky grin. The tousled hair that looks unfairly good on someone I’m supposed to despise. That effortless confidence he wears like armor.
As if he feels my stare, Hayes looks up.
A slow smirk curves his lips as his gaze drags over my body, unhurried and deliberate. A familiar chill crawls down my spine, my skin prickling as I shiver despite myself. He holds my gaze as I approach my locker, watching every step like I’m something he already owns.
When I stop in front of him, his smirk widens.
“Miller.”
My last name rolls off his tongue like a taunt. Like a challenge.
“Griffin.” I plant myself in front of my locker, eyes narrowing when I realize he’s deliberately blocking it. “You planning on moving, or should I push you out of the way?”
He laughs—low, taunting, and annoyingly sexy—as he leans back just enough to mock the idea of giving me space. “No need to get violent. I just wanted to make sure you’re still game for tonight.”
“Game?” I scoff, fixing him with a hard stare. “You mean your stupid dare?”
“Skating blindfolded around the rink isn’t stupid,” Hayes says, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s a test of skill. And I’d hate for you to chicken out after you were so cocky at the party.”
I feel the irritation coil tighter in my chest, sharp and familiar. The memory of him standing there that night—confident, smug, daring me in front of everyone—flashes through my mind. He’s always pushing. Always testing. Like he expects me to fold.
He’s wrong.
“I’m not backing down,” I say, voice steady. “And the last thing you’re going to do is scare me into it.”
His eyebrow lifts, smirk deepening. “Good. Because I’d hate for everyone to think Dakota Miller talks a big game but can’t follow through.”
The way he says my name—slow, deliberate, like he’s daring me to prove him wrong—makes my blood boil. But beneath the anger, there’s something else. Something I hate even more.
The closeness.
The way his eyes don’t waver. The tension humming between us, electric and dangerous.
“I’ll be there,” I growl, finally shoving past him to reach my locker.
He steps aside—but not before his shoulder brushes mine.
It’s barely a touch. Still, it sends a spark straight through me, sharp and unwanted, leaving me tense and annoyed with myself.
“You know you could always back down,” he says behind me. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his attention pinned to my back. “You could apologize for even challenging me in the first place.”
I scoff, a bitter chuckle slipping out as I turn—only to realize we’re suddenly far too close.
“Why do I have a feeling you’re the one who’s scared, Hayes?” I tilt my head, one eyebrow raised. “It’s a dare. And I’m not backing down.”
Hayes watches me with that smug grin, like he knows exactly how to get under my skin—which he does.
“Looking forward to it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “I’ll be watching. Don’t disappoint me.”
I slam my locker shut and glare at him, jaw clenched. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
For a beat, we just stand there. The tension between us is thick, suffocating. His eyes flicker, amusement still curled at the corners of his lips. He’s enjoying this—every second of it. Enjoying the fact that he can push me this easily, that I always rise to the bait.
Hayes leans in slightly, close enough that his voice drops to a near whisper.
“The last thing we both want is you making a fool of yourself in front of the team you’ve been trying so desperately to impress,” he murmurs. “Now, that wouldn’t be nice… would it?”
His breath brushes my cheek. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, traitorous and fast.
Then he straightens.
And walks away.
I’m left standing there, pulse racing for reasons I don’t want to name. I hate him—God, I do—but I can’t deny that part of me is always braced for this. Always waiting for these moments where we collide, where I’m forced to face the fact that Hayes Griffin isn’t just a thorn in my side.
My chest feels tight.
The only thing I know for sure is that I hate him. I hate him more than I hate anything.
But there’s something else beneath that hatred. Something ugly. Something stubborn. Something I can’t shake no matter how hard I try.
“Man, fuck this shit,” I mutter, slamming my fist into my locker.
Pain flares through my knuckles, sharp and immediate—but it barely registers. It’s easier to focus on that than the confusion twisting inside me.
I shake out my hand, curling my fingers into a fist before forcing them to relax. How do I always fall for his games? I’ve known that prick since we were ten, and somehow he still gets under my skin every single time.
The way he leans in.
The way that stupid smirk sends heat crawling up my neck like some kind of sick spell.
How do I stop reacting like this?
This isn’t middle school. This is high school. And Hayes Griffin is not supposed to be able to fuck with my head anymore.
And yet—here we are.
Him pushing every button. Me letting him. That stupid grin. That stupid smirk. Leaving me feeling hot, off-balance, and angry at myself for it.
What is this? A crush that never burned out?
It’s been four years, and he still knows exactly how to mess with me—how to get into my head, how to make my heart do things it has no business doing.
He turned my world upside down once.
And I let him do it again.
Maybe the sooner I accept that, the better.
I think back to the past—to when things were simpler. When it was easy to hate him. When hate didn’t bleed into something else.
But now?
Now I don’t even know where the line is anymore—between anger and something far more dangerous.