𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜

"𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝" --- James Whitaker had grown up with Clara Monroe. She was his shadow, his teammate, his best friend. They built forts out of old newspapers in his father’s shop, raced down dirt roads until their lungs burned, and swore they’d never drift apart. But they did. Somewhere along the way, Clara became serious, sharp, determined to be the best. James stayed the joker, always chasing fun instead of rules. One ugly argument — about who had changed, who had left who behind — ended with her walking away, and he never managed to pull her back. Years later, they sat across from each other in the newsroom. Clara had grown into everything he wasn’t: disciplined, brilliant, untouchable. He drove her crazy with his charm and recklessness; she drove him mad with her scolding and her cold perfection. They fought daily, and every word between them was a duel. Yet the more they clashed, the more James felt it — the pull he’d been trying to bury for years. Every time she glared, every time she argued, his chest tightened. He told himself he hated her, but the truth was cruel: he was falling harder with every fight. Then one night, after another heated argument, fate shoved them into a supply closet together. The door slammed shut behind them, locked. At first, the room filled with shouting — her accusing him of arrogance, him mocking her stubbornness. The air between them burned hot, the old rhythm of their rivalry sparking like fire. But then the silence slipped in. They stood too close, breathing hard, glaring into each other’s eyes. James’s pulse hammered. He’d spent years turning their battles into a shield against how he really felt. Now, with nowhere to run, the truth broke free. Before Clara could fire another barb, he grabbed her and kissed her. She froze — then melted into him, their fight burning away in the heat