JUICEBOX VENDETTA | JAKE SIM | ONE SHOT
Genre: Enemies to lovers (with maximum simp energy)
You don’t even remember what flavor it was.
Orange, maybe. Or grape. Whatever it was, it ruined your unicorn leggings in the 5th grade and sealed Jake Sim’s fate as your eternal nemesis.
“Move,” you mutter, brushing past him in the hall now, seven years later.
“Sure. Just let me wipe my shoes—might trip over your grudge,” Jake deadpans.
You spin around. “You spilled juice on me.”
“In 5th grade!” he throws his arms up. “It was a JUICE BOX, not acid!”
“Same difference,” you say sweetly. “My thighs were sticky for days.”
Jake chokes on his laughter and then pretends to gag. “Gross, YN. Please. It’s 8 a.m.”
This is your routine. Morning insults, accidental brush-ups in class, and snarky hallway banter that somehow feels like a full-time job. If there were a GPA for verbal combat, you and Jake would be valedictorian and runner-up, constantly switching places.
You tell yourself you hate him.
But maybe it’s weird that you know he doodles on the margins of his notebooks and always flicks his pencil twice before writing. Or that he only drinks strawberry milk on test days. Or that he has the tiniest dimple on the right, not the left.
Totally normal. Totally enemy surveillance.
You absolutely do not notice how good he looks leaning against lockers.
Today, you’re both late to chemistry, and there’s only one Bunsen burner left.
“Great,” you sigh. “You breathe too loud. I’ll get carbon monoxide poisoning.”
Jake smirks. “You think I’m hot.”
He flicks on the flame. “Carbon monoxide is odorless and tasteless. You’re thinking of carbon dioxide—what you exhale when I walk by.”
You glare. “I hope this lab blows up.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, handing you goggles. “I’d save you first. Even if you still hate me for a Capri Sun homicide in 2016.”
Your hand brushes his. You both pull back like it burned.
You sit with your friends and spy on Jake from two tables away. It’s not spying, exactly. Just… gathering intel.
He’s laughing at something Sunghoon says. His head tilts back and his smile does that thing. That thing. You shove a carrot in your mouth like it insulted you.
“I swear,” your best friend says, “if you keep staring, I’m gonna charge you rent.”
“You have the facial expression of a Victorian ghost watching its former lover court a new bride.”
“Stop simping and just talk to him.”
“I do talk to him! I insult him daily!”
They sigh. “The line between hate and love is thin.”
“Thinner than the Capri Sun straw he stabbed my childhood with?”
They blink. “You seriously need therapy.”
You’re trying to carry an overloaded project board and a cup of paint back inside when, of course, a familiar voice pops up behind you.
You freeze. “Don’t call me that.”
Jake grabs the other side of the board anyway. “Let me guess. DIY revenge machine? Shoots juice at unsuspecting boys?”
“Unfortunately, you’re not worth the engineering degree.”
You walk in awkward silence for a few steps before he says, “You know I didn’t mean to spill it, right?”
You glance over. He looks weirdly sincere.
“I was nervous,” he adds. “You—uh—you had pigtails and glitter sneakers and a smile that made my brain shut down.”
You trip over your own foot. “Excuse me?”
Jake looks horrified he said that out loud. “Forget it. I—I mean, whatever. You were just a weird little kid.”
“You had a mushroom haircut.”
“You liked my mushroom haircut!”
“You called me ‘Toad’ and giggled.”
You’re both smiling now. Stupidly. Your hands are still on the board, your fingers almost touching.
You clear your throat. “Thanks, I guess. For the help.”
“No problem.” Then, softer: “You look good in paint. Really brings out the menace in your eyes.”
You blink. “You’re… flirting?”
“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “Do you like me?”
He grins. “Took you long enough.”
You’ve stopped calling him your nemesis.
Now your insults sound more like… flirting. At least, that’s what your friends say.
You still glare at him, but it’s less homicidal and more “I hope you trip into my arms.”
Jake has started saving you a seat in chem. He still acts like an idiot, but now he does it while giving you his extra snack packs and picking leaves out of your hair.
One day, he shows up at your locker with a juice box.
“Peace offering,” he says, holding it out.
You squint at it. “Is it poisoned?”
He snorts. “Strawberry kiwi. Your favorite.”
He gently presses it into your hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer. “Fifth grade me was dumb. And nervous. And probably had a crush the size of Jupiter.”
You look down at the juice box. Your fingers brush his again. This time, you don’t pull away.
“…Okay,” you murmur. “Apology accepted. Under one condition.”
You each take a dramatic sip.
“Upgrade,” you whisper. “From nemesis to… maybe something else.”
Jake looks like you just handed him the moon.
Fast-forward: Spring Fling Dance
Jake is wearing a tie that doesn’t match, and you’re wearing a dress that definitely does. You didn’t plan to go together. Technically.
But your friends ditched you to take pictures, and somehow, Jake shows up beside you, sipping juice from a thermos.
“Too cool for punch?” you tease.
He nudges you with his elbow. “Too traumatized. Juice gang for life.”
You laugh. “We’re so dumb.”
“Maybe. But at least we’re dumb together.”
Then, nervously: “Can I have this dance, Juicebox?”
You mock-groan. “I swear, if you call me that at our wedding—”
You turn red. “Hypothetical! Future! Very distant!”
He’s beaming. “So you’re saying there’s a future.”
You whack his arm, but your hand stays there a second too long.
“Shut up and dance with me.”
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