When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter Five: Animal Farm

Willow Harrison's POV

The room went silent.

Grace blinked, thrown off for a second before her expression twisted. “What? Just because I broke your precious little rule?” Her voice was sharp, bitter. Then her eyes flicked at me, like a blade catching light. "Just because I kissed you in front of Willow?"

Oliver didn’t even flinch. “That was my only rule, Grace,” he said, a tone so cold it could’ve frozen fire.

Then, like the whole scene meant nothing, he dropped onto the worn couch with a sigh, leaned back, and tossed an arm over the backrest. “Now leave. We're over.”

Like it was that simple.

Grace stood there, stunned in silence. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted between us, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened. Trust me, even I'm baffled. Grace spun on her heel, heels clacking against the floor as she stormed out, the door slamming hard behind her.

The echo settled. The coefficient of friction returned.

I crossed my arms. “What was that about?”

“What?” he asked, not even pretending to be clueless. Just stalling.

“That rule, Clarke.”

"You really couldn't have just let that off the hook, huh?" He looked me dead in the eye, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, like he was finally paying attention. “Fine. Then let’s call it what it is. A fixed boundary condition. I don’t cross it. Not in front of you.”

"We didn't agree with that sort of thing."

"We didn't have to," Oliver said, "I came up with it on my own, so just be thankful, and let's forget about it."

Before I could even ask more questions, the doors opened and the room flooded with noise, footsteps, and the shuffling chaos that came with the rest of the student body arriving.

Oliver clapped his hands, loud and commanding. “Great, we can start.”

Matt, the treasurer, let out a yawn so exaggerated it was almost a protest in itself. “Ollie, man, is this really necessary? Performing during an acquaintance party is nothing short of lame.”

“This is a formal setting, Matt,” Oliver said with that same cutting edge he reserved for when he wanted to remind people who held the reins. “Call me accordingly.”

One thing about Oliver that's consistent is how cold and cruel he can be in these kinds of situations. For formal meetings like these or when representing the school, it's almost as if he flips an on switch, and he becomes a different person in front of others. And just because he couldn’t help himself, Oliver turned and shot me a look, something between smug and taunting. “As your new president, this is the first project I proposed. So we’ll do it.” Clearly emphasizing the president.

That's the Oliver I know. I rolled my eyes at that.

Matt groaned as his entire soul ached. “Fine. But why the hideous animal costumes? They look cheap. Like, dollar-store cheap.”

Honestly, the costume was one of the few things Oliver did that I didn’t hate. As childish or cheap as they may seem, growing up, I never had the chance to wear costumes like these because I didn't want to burden my parents by asking to buy something expensive I'd wear for only a day. Not that I’d ever admit that. At least not out loud.

The colors were vibrant, ridiculous in the best way, and the heads were oversized enough to cover expressions, which was a blessing, especially during awkward choreography.

I muttered, “As vice president, I approve of the costumes. They aren't as expensive as last year's tux and dress suggestion."

Oliver glanced at me again. Just a flicker. That barely-there twitch of a smirk, the slight raise of his brow like he'd won something—I hated how satisfied he looked.

Matt rolled his eyes and flopped onto one of the chairs. “Whatever. I call dibs on the raccoon. It looks cool."

Damn it. I wanted that the most.

I narrowed my eyes at the costume rack like it had personally betrayed me. As my gaze trailed back, I caught Oliver watching me—already smirking like he’d hacked into my internal monologue.

He cleared his throat loudly, with the kind of drama that meant this was planned. “Actually, I already assigned the roles,” he said with a fake-casual shrug. “I get the raccoon. Matt, you’re the pigeon. Hazel gets the cat. Kyle’s the dog. And you, Harrison...” He paused just long enough to be annoying. “You’re the hedgehog.”

I turned slowly, careful not to make a scene, and sent him a glare.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Problem, Ms. Vice President?”

“Why these assignments?” I asked through gritted teeth as I tucked my hair neatly behind my ear.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dipped just enough to be smug. “It suits everyone. The hedgehog,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural decision in the world. “Small. Prickly. Unapproachable. A bit dramatic under pressure, but fundamentally harmless.”

“You’re assigning animal personas now based on unsolicited psychological profiles?” I scoffed, "I never pegged you as the type for personality quizzes, zodiac signs, and what not."

“I like to think of it as observational science,” he replied, already turning away like he’d won. “Very accurate. Peer-reviewed by me.”

Matt groaned. “A pigeon? Seriously? What am I, a flying rat?”

Hazel, our committee chair, perked up. “I like cats. That tracks.”

Kyle, our secretary, shrugged. “Dogs are fine, I guess.”

"See?" Oliver said, sweeping a glance across the room. "Everyone’s fine with it. Let’s proceed with the practice."

"All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." I muttered under my breath as we started to warm up and took our places in front of the mirror—yes, the student council had our own rehearsal room, because of course we did. Courtesy of Oliver Clarke.

Nothing that money can't buy these days.

Oliver glanced over, unfazed, and said casually, "George Orwell. My favorite."

"No s**t, Sherlock," I mouthed, but, of course, he understood. He flashed a grin my way. "Language, Harrison."

"Orwell, I know him!" Matt chimed in enthusiastically, clearly proud of himself. "We were classmates last year, unapologetically gay; he was lovely. See, I’m woke."

I gave him a forced smile. Matt nodded like he’d just solved the mysteries of the universe, and I didn't know what to feel.

As we continued to get into position, the chatter died down, but Matt’s incessant rambling had already set the tone for the practice. That was the longest we've spoken; it was interesting and... odd, I guess?

Matt, still trying to sound knowledgeable, launched into another tangent. "You know, George Orwell didn’t just write Animal Farm. He wrote 1984, too. I mean, talk about woke—that guy had visions of a dystopia like no other. Anyway, are you free later? Can we have coffee and talk more?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Me? Are you asking me out?" I gave him a once-over, half-suspicious, half-amused. Maybe Oliver put him up to this.

Matt waved his hand, clearly unfazed. "Yeah, you’re pretty and smart. Everyone’s dying to ask you out, but, you know, you’re—"

"Matt, save it for the history class," Oliver cut in, strictly. "We’re here to rehearse."

I couldn’t help but notice how Oliver’s gaze didn’t waver from me, his eyes locked on mine with a certain intensity that made my stomach twist. It was like he was waiting for some kind of reaction.

Matt, clearly a little thrown off by the sudden interruption, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah, sure, whatever." He shrugged and returned to the group without another word, but I could feel the tension hanging in the air.

How odd. It was the first time Oliver looked at me that way. Like he owned me.

I rolled my eyes and tried to forget about it.