Fucking Finch.

Yvo's fist visibly clenches on top of his table when the waft of cinnamon hits his nose. He doesn't have to raise his eyes—fucking Finch walks in the room, down the steps and past the rows, and takes her seat at the middle, right side.

He hates her. Hates the insufferable know-it-all and her massive, five-subject notebook and two pens, always two, on the left side, always left. Yvo scowls. What kind of notebook is that? She fucking writes in there the whole lecture when her hand's not in the fucking air and her stupid mouth is babbling the answer. It looks like a torture method. Jesus.

And who the fuck needs two pens. Fucking Finch, that's who.

Hates her uselessly big and brown eyes. Hates how he can clearly see the dark and the light browns of her bird's nest explosive hair from his seat towards the back. Hates that it's down today so he can't see her neck but can imagine how he'll pull her curls. Hates that her lips blind him with its fucking burgundy color in contrast to her pale face. Hates that he knows she wore this particular tank top—this white tank top that allows him to roam his eyes over her bare shoulders and arms and the line of her spine and hands—fucking dainty hands—a Friday two weeks ago.

The line of her back is offensive. It's insulting.

Yvo glares at it.

"You're doing it again. Staring at your everyday first-period fantasy," Graham drawls beside him, and on a second thought, he corrects, "Terrifying her."

Yvo doesn't bother looking at him nor answering. It's a waste of five fucking seconds.

He leans back against his chair, breaking the candy in his mouth in half. He pushes it against his cheek, wraps his tongue around it.

Hates how he watches her wrap her lips around the straw of her coffee.

"Anyone?" their professor fucking asks like he does every day, and like every day, Finch's hand is in the air.

The professor smiles at her. Yvo bares his teeth. Fucking teacher's pet and massive fucking brain that can barely fit inside her head. "Ms. Finch."

When she answers, her voice makes him nearly snap his pen in half.

Yvo waits for her to pack her suitcase into her brown bag when class is dismissed. Waits for her to push her hair out of her shoulder and pick up her half-finished coffee and turn his way.

Like always, she meets his eyes. Yvo takes satisfaction in how they narrow, the confusion and irritation in them, and the way her throat moves as she rushes past him, and her smell hits his fucking nose again.

Hates her.

He hates her so much he can't think of anything else.

She's invaded his senses—smell, sight, sound.

What's left?

Ah.

Taste and touch.

*

Jayden and Graham are playing cards in the student lounge when Yvo walks in after his last class, dumping his bag on the table.

"And he returns," Jayden muses. "Ask her out yet?"

Graham snorts loudly. "She'd run away once she sees Yvo coming. You don't know how he stares at her in class."

Yvo grits his teeth, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"Like he wants to eat her?"

"Or kill her, I'm not sure. He hasn't decided." Graham puts down his cards.

Fucking idiots, Yvo thinks.

Jayden doesn't look up at him when he says, "Stop scaring her in first period. Trust me, Yvo, you can get rid of that stick up your ass if you just ask her out or tell her you wanna kiss the shit out of her."

"I don't." His own voice startles him. The words are out of his mouth before he can think about it.

Graham snorts, clicking his tongue. "A denial straight from Yvo Sandejas's mouth is the truth."

Jayden grins. "No guarantees she'll allow you, though. You're kind of an asshole."

"You first then," he drawls lazily, knowing he's hung up on a certain blonde in one of his classes.

"Fine." Jayden scans the room. "Betty!" he shouts, and she looks up from the table across with a smile. "Dinner Saturday?"

She raises her shoulders. "Sure."

Jayden looks at Yvo. "Your move."

Graham laughs.

Yvo scowls, slamming his hand on the table, and grabs his bag. He makes sure to hit Jayden on the way.

*

He finds her in the library. Fucking typical.

The past three years in their university and Finch has nested in this fucking library, taking up too much space with her massive suitcase and notebook and two pens.

She doesn't look up when Yvo scrapes back the chair on the desk next to her and sits down, stretching his legs.

What the fuck is he doing here.

This is all the prick Jayden's fault. He planted the seed in Yvo's head and he can't fucking get it out. He hasn't stopped hating her in class and watching her long fingernails tap against the table, wondering if she's the kind of lover who scratches his back and digs them into his nape—but fuck if he hasn't started noticing her mouth more.

Hates it. Hates the color, the size, the drop in his stomach when he imagines how they feel.

Fuck imagining, but he shouldn't be here. Finch hates him, too.

So it's not a surprise when her head whips around and her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, finding him there, and she hisses, "What?"

"Free seat," Yvo says lowly.

Finch rolls her eyes and returns her attention to her laptop.

Yvo stares at her fingernails again on the keyboard. They're painted this white color at the tips where they're long. Scratch me, he thinks.

He stares at her and scowls when he notices her hair is up in a ponytail with strands of them falling across her face and he can see her neck. There's a silver chain around it that he wants to replace with his hand and she's wearing a gray shirt with Croyden University on it, tucked into the smallest pair of shorts he's ever seen.

"Sandejas!" she snaps, and Yvo tears his eyes away from her thighs (choke me) and finds her angry and flushed face. "Why are you staring at me?"

"Shut up, Finch." Want your mouth, fucking want it.

She sneers at him and huffs in indignation, furiously scribbling into that torture device.

Her lips are pressed into a hard line and fucking Jayden, fuck that prick, fuck him for saying—

"You're still staring," Finch hisses.

"I want to kiss you," he says.

Yvo watches her face do three things at once, her jaw clamping shut.

Then, angry, she snaps her laptop shut and packs her things, hastily shoving them inside her bag. "Fuck off, Sandejas."

*

She's glaring at him during breakfast at the dining hall.

Yvo winks at her—just because he can—when he walks in with his hands shoved inside his pockets, and sits down beside the pricks.

"I take it you got slapped?" Graham asks, snorting, catching the look on Finch's face.

Jayden snickers. "Commend you for trying, bud."

Yvo doesn't answer—or look at them—and watches her stab her fork into her plate.

She's clearly imagining stabbing his eye.

It makes his lips twitch all the way through breakfast, all through first period until he realizes he hates her all over again.

Yvo hates that her hair is up in a bun today and the sleeves of her sweater on top of a collared shirt are fucking rolled up and he envies and hates her fucking skirt because it can touch her thighs.

Hates that her voice echoes in his head after she answers the professor's question and he can only imagine how she says his name. Given name.

Hates that he can only imagine how he's going to kiss her and the sounds she's going to make and her fingernails in his neck because there's no way in fucking hell she's letting him anywhere near her.

Hates it.

Graham puts a hand on his shoulder when he leaves the room, following the rest of their classmates. Yvo watches her pack her things and turn around, the scowl on her face greeting him.

Yvo chews his gum slowly as Finch walks up the steps, still glaring at him.

But instead of rushing past him like she always does after giving him her death glare, she stops beside his row and demands, "Do you actually want to kiss me? Is that why you stare at me every day?"

Yvo pushes his gum against his cheek. "Wouldn't have asked if I didn't, would I, sweetheart?"

Finch's cheeks are pink. Knew it. But Yvo wants to make them red. "Fine."

Yvo narrows his eyes at her. "The fuck you mean fine?"

She shrugs, as if she didn't just make his stomach tie in fucking knots. "Fine, we can kiss. But you have to earn it."

He raises an eyebrow.

Finch hugs her notebook to her chest, keeping his stare. "Rich, spoiled brats like you think you can just demand something and have it in return. You can have it when you show me you can make an effort."

Yvo stares at her. "By doing what, exactly?"

She smiles at him. "I don't know yet. Of course, you can take it back. I don't expect the great Jonathan Yvo Sandejas to do anything I want."

What the fuck.

Finch's mouth saying his name sounds fucking better than his imagination.

And a kiss? Holy shit.

When he doesn't answer, Finch shrugs, like she expected this, and his blood fucking boils when she turns around to walk away—

Hates this, hates her lips, hates her—"Should be a hell of a kisser, then," he hisses through his teeth.

Finch clears her throat once, stopping, and turns around again to face him. Her skirt follows her fucking legs. "Walk me to my dorm room, then."

Fucking, fucking, fucking—

Yvo stands up and follows after her.

The other students in their year throw them questionable glances, and it doesn't take a genius to guess what they're thinking—has hell frozen over? Why are Yvo Sandejas and Blaise Finch walking together?

They don't say a word.

In front of her door, Finch turns around with an easy smile. "Well. That was fun."

Yvo clenches his jaw, staring down at her. Fun is having people think he likes her or some shit.

"I've thought about it," she says. "It's a Saturday tomorrow, so you can pick me up here and take me to lunch across campus."

Where there'll be countless Croyden students watching them. Bitch.

"And," Finch continues, hates her, fucking hates—"you have to talk. Nicely."

Yvo resists rolling his eyes. "Fine," he bites out.

He turns around to walk away, but his body only gets halfway there before she slides her hand on his neck and presses her lips to his.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

It's slow and sensual and she's taking her time, like she's telling him—here's a preview, Sandejas. This is how I kiss.

He doesn't know how his hand ends up on the curve of her hip while he tugs her bottom lip and tastes her mouth greedily, but it does and he squeezes it, pulling her to him until he feels her chest and he breathes heavily.

Yvo's stomach flips over. He was right. She's the kind of lover who digs her fingernails into his neck. Would she scratch his back when he—

Finch pulls back—no, no, more, fucking more—and she blinks at him, dazed, before closing the door in his face.

Fuck.

He wants more.

*

AAAAAAAAAAA i loved writing yvo so much. please let me know what u think i love comments c: or tweet me @ arrowheadswp!