When we broke away for air, he pulled back a bit, looking at me with lust-drunk eyes. It was the same way he’d looked the night of Preston’s party before either of us knew who the other was, before the line in the sand was drawn. Back when we were just two people, connected by luck or fate or hormones — not hatred. They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. But what about lust and hate? Where did that fall on the spectrum?
