The boy raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow at me. “You recognized me earlier. I could tell. Are you going to pretend otherwise?”

“I don’t know who you are,” I say flatly, unable to put forward any other emotion.

An unfriendly smirk tugs at the boy’s mouth, familiar and yet somehow not. “Are you sure, love? Because you’re still standing in my way. You could stand to be a little less desperate—”

“What?” I ask, lips moving without permission. His words are slowly sinking in, but they still don’t make any sense. What is happening right now? And why is he being such a condescending ass? Is the entire world taking a shit on me for fun?

He falters, blinking at me. “I said you could stand to be a little less desperate—”

“Seriously?” I ask. Now that the initial shock is fading, I’m left with nothing except irritation. It wasn’t enough to be cold, wet, and on the brink of tears, but now there’s a random boy patronizing me? Because he thinks I recognize him when I don’t? He might be drop-dead gorgeous, but my bad mood doesn’t care much for objective beauty—especially if it comes with a shitty personality. “Don’t talk to me like that. I don’t care who you are.”

Almost deliberately, the boy looks me up and down, his eyes trailing across my skin like a whip. “If that’s what you have to tell yourself to sleep at night. But we both know the truth.”

I blink at him, my brain buzzing faintly. He’s still staring at me, a wisp of a condescending grin on his face, as if to say, I caught you.

“Do we?” I stare at him for a long time, my gaze listless. “Do you?”

The boy’s brows draw together, but the arrogance continues dripping off him, as unrelenting as the rain around us. “Of course I do.”

I tilt my head. “Okay.”

The longer I stare at him, the more his certainty seems to fade. “I do,” he says again, his voice icy.

I blink slowly, a mocking smile parting my lips. “You’re right. You do.”

The boy straightens, some of his confidence returning. I can’t help the resentment that slithers through me, wishing I could recover like that from a blow. Then maybe my family wouldn’t have this much control over me. “I knew it—”

“I know exactly who you are,” I say, cutting him off. “A dickhead that takes pride in belittling others. The kind with an inflated sense of self-importance, who thinks he’s better than everyone around him.” I mimic his earlier behavior, looking him up and down pointedly. “Though I can’t imagine why.”

The boy’s gaze turns cold, his mouth cutting a cruel line. “Are you always this rude to strangers? Who raised you?”