Short Story - Nine out of Ten

Some people make you crazy. Others make you forget why you ever tried to resist them.

This week’s story is for anyone who’s ever hated how much they wanted someone—and wanted them anyway.

It’s enemies-to-lovers at its most dangerous: sharp words, tighter spaces, and a line they swore they’d never cross.

They just needed to survive ten minutes in a closet.

They didn’t.

Nine out of Ten

Delany

The door slams before I can spin around.

Click.

And just like that, I’m locked in a coat closet with the last man on earth I’d willingly breathe near, let alone share oxygen with.

“Real mature,” I mutter, slapping the door with my palm. “So what now? We wait ten minutes, and magically we stop hating each other?”

Behind me, Cole exhales a low, mocking laugh. “Ten minutes? Should’ve told them thirty. Might’ve had time to make some real progress.”

I spin to glare at him, even though I can barely see his face in the dim light filtering through the slatted door. He’s leaning back like this is fun for him, like he didn’t spend the last six months acting like I was a fly he couldn’t be bothered to swat.

“Don’t flatter yourself. The only progress I’m interested in is you choking on a hanger.”

He smirks, and I hate that I can feel it in the dark. “Feisty tonight, Delaney.”

I cross my arms, ignoring the way his voice slides down my spine like it’s been here before. It hasn’t. Not really. Not unless you count the argument behind the bar last year. The almost-kiss two years before that. Or the night he whispered something I’ll never repeat, then walked away like it didn’t ruin me.

“You’re blocking the air vent,” I say. “Back up.”

He doesn’t move. “You sure it’s the air that’s making you sweat?”

I hate him. I hate how calm he sounds. How close he is. How I can smell his stupid expensive cologne and feel the heat radiating off him like some kind of human furnace. The closet’s too small. He’s too tall. My body’s already betraying me.

I shift a little. So does he. The movement brushes us closer.

And for one second, I swear we both stop breathing.

The silence stretches, it's thick and stifling. He’s not touching me, not really but I can feel him. The heat of his arm. The scent of his skin. The steady, infuriating way he breathes like none of this is getting to him.

It’s always been like that. Me unraveling. Him watching.

“You’re really not going to move?” I say, softer this time.

He hums, low and unapologetic. “Didn’t think you’d mind. You’ve always liked getting worked up around me.”

I bark out a laugh, sharp and ugly. “Worked up? That’s your version of foreplay?”

“You tell me.” His voice drops. “You’ve got a little tremble in your voice, Delaney. Hate to break it to you, but I think you missed me.”

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re nervous.”

I want to deny it, I really do. But he’s close enough now that my back’s against the wall, his body angled toward mine, and if I so much as blink too hard, we’ll touch.

“This is what you do, isn’t it?” I whisper. “Push until someone breaks.”

He leans in, just enough that I feel the brush of his breath at my jaw.

“Just you,” he says.

God.

I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t ache like this. But I do. I always have. Underneath the snark and the screaming matches, there’s been this…thing. This heat. This sick craving I haven’t been able to scrub out no matter how hard I’ve tried.

“You think this means something?” I ask, voice catching. “Because you’re close, and I’m mad, and you smell like every bad decision I’ve ever made?”

His mouth tips into the faintest smile. “No. I think this means you want me. And you hate yourself for it.”

He’s right. And I want to slap him for it.

Instead, I grab the collar of his shirt and yank him toward me.

His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been waiting for this moment since the first time we fought. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and lips and breathless curses as his hands find my waist and slam me back into the wall like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this too.

Like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want me.

His mouth is fire. Wild. Greedy. All sharp teeth and dragged-out hunger like he’s waited years for this and hates himself for every second of it.

Good.

I hate him, too.

I gasp as his hand slides beneath my sweater, rough fingers skating over my ribs like he owns me. 

“Cole—”

“Say it,” he growls against my lips. “Say you want this.”

I don’t.

I do.

But he already knows. My hips tilt forward, chasing friction. He hisses a curse, shoving a thigh between mine, grinding me against it. My head falls back with a moan that’s so embarrassingly desperate I nearly slap a hand over my mouth.

“You’ve got nothing to say now?” he murmurs. “That’s a first.”

I grab a fistful of his shirt, yanking it up, dragging my nails over the hard muscle beneath. He swears again, hands roaming with none of the control he usually hides behind. This isn’t the polished, cocky version of him that flirts just to piss me off. This is raw. Unraveled. Furious with need.

“Take it off,” I snap, fingers fumbling at the buttons of his jeans. “I’m not letting you leave this closet with your smug little smirk unless I ruin you first.”

His laugh is hoarse and breathless. “You already have.”

I don’t let that settle. Don’t give myself time to think. I shove his jeans down, and he pulls my panties aside in the same second. There’s nothing soft about the way he touches me. No slow build.

Just fingers slipping between my thighs like he’s been memorizing me in secret.

I cry out, loud, shocked. “Jesus—”

“I’m not patient, Delaney,” he rasps. “Especially not with you.”

My legs part around his thigh, my back arching, my chest pressing into him. He finds my pulse with his mouth, biting down just hard enough to hurt, and I swear I see stars. My body rocks with every movement of his hand, slick and perfect and so fast I’m already close.

Too close.

“I hate you,” I breathe.

“You sound real convincing right now,” he says, lips dragging across my throat. “But your pussy’s telling a different story.”

I dig my nails into his shoulders. “Shut up.”

He does.

Only long enough to slide inside me.

No warning. No tease. Just him, thick, deep, filling me in one rough thrust that steals the breath from my lungs. My cry is caught in his mouth, swallowed by the kind of kiss that says this has never been hate.

Never.

His hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back as he drives into me hard and relentless, each thrust pounding out every memory I’ve ever tried to bury. I dig my heels into the back of his thighs, gripping him like if I let go, I’ll shatter completely.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans. “Tight. Hot. Just like I knew you would.”

I shouldn’t let him say things like that. I shouldn’t love it.

But I do.

I’m gasping now, lost in the rhythm, in the furious pace that says this isn’t just about lust, it’s about every word we never said. Every look we ignored. Every time we should’ve done this and didn’t.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do.

And then I fall apart.

It’s not quiet. It’s not subtle. I come hard, clenched tight around him, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound as he follows me over the edge with a ragged groan and one last punishing thrust.

We’re both shaking. Breathing hard.

Sweaty. Disheveled. Spent.

The closet feels smaller now. Too real. Too quiet.

His forehead presses to mine, and for a second, it feels like maybe, maybe, this is more than just hate and heat.

But then I hear voices on the other side of the door.

The lock clicks. Light spills in.

And just like that, it’s over.

He pulls out slowly, like he doesn’t want to. Like the moment’s still clinging to him.

My legs tremble as I slide down his body, the rush of air against my skin shocking after how hot everything just was. I smooth my skirt down with shaky hands, ignoring the way it sticks to my thighs, the way my underwear’s useless at this point. I don’t even glance at him.

Not until I hear the low grind of a zipper.

He’s tucking himself back in, buttoning up his jeans like it’s just another night. Like this didn’t break something wide open between us.

The door is still cracked, voices fading in the distance now. We’re alone again, but everything feels louder.

Cole glances at me. For one second, his expression falters, something unguarded, almost soft. But then the smirk returns, effortless as always. 

I freeze.

But then he smirks, that familiar tilt of his lips sliding right back into place like it never left.

“Well,” he says, voice smooth as sin, “I’d rate that closet a solid nine out of ten. Decent space. Great acoustics.​​ Company was… passable.”

I let out a dry laugh, no humor in it. “Right. Remind me to aim higher next time.”

He smirks, unapologetic. “Might help if you could keep up.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, brushing past him toward the open door. “This was a mistake.”

He leans against the doorframe as I walk out, looking way too pleased with himself. “You say that now. Let’s see what you’re saying next time.”

I don’t answer.

Because we both know there’s going to be a next time.

And that’s the real mistake.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: June 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix