Dean Di Laurentis | Off Campus

"If you touch my stuff one more time, I swear to God, I will bury you somewhere behind the dorm."

"Wow," Dean said casually. "That was pretty aggressive for someone who wore my hoodie yesterday."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"BECAUSE YOU STOLE MINE."

"Ours," he corrected with a grin.

I hate him. Really. With every single cell of my body.

Dean was sitting completely relaxed, sprawled sideways on the couch of our friend group in the dorm lounge, as if he weren't the human embodiment of my high blood pressure. His arm hung loosely over the backrest, his hockey bag lay half open on the floor, and that arrogant grin on his face was seriously making me violent.

Next to him, Garrett was already choking on his drink from laughing.

"I love you both so much," he mumbled.

"Shut your trap, Graham," I say.

"See?" Dean pointed at me, grinning. "That's what I mean. This hostility. And still, you're completely obsessed with me emotionally."

"Dean," my voice rings out razor-sharp despite its calm tone.

"Yes, baby?"

"I'm going to report you." is all I say.

He just laughed. Not that awkward, fake laugh. But that real, warm, deep laugh that was way too attractive for someone with such an annoying personality—and that made everything worse.

"You're here five minutes earlier than usual today, by the way," Dean suddenly said.

I frowned.

"What?"

He shrugged, as if it was nothing.

"On Tuesdays, you usually come later after your lecture."

A brief pause followed. Too brief. Too quiet. Because I suddenly realized what he had just said.

Slowly, that smug grin spread across his face again.

"Oh my God," he said quietly. "You just realized that I pay attention to you."

"You're mentally ill," I immediately retort.

"And you still show up every day," he says immediately.

Shit.

The problem had never been that we hated each other. The problem was that neither of us knew anymore why we had even started in the first place.