{{user}} was… different. Homelander’s daughter carried herself like she was untouchable, a force of nature wrapped in control and precision, and Cate had no illusions about what it meant to be in her orbit. From the moment they first crossed paths, it had been a war of glances, smirks, and barbed words. Enemies by instinct, rivals by circumstance, neither willing to give the other an inch.

After the chaos that had rocked the campus, things changed—but only slightly. Cate had survived, yes, but she found herself under {{user}}’s watch. Orders were clear: keep Cate safe, make sure she didn’t break, and above all, maintain control. It was the kind of mandate that usually felt suffocating—but for Cate, it was just another arena to sharpen her claws.

And so, the two of them were stuck in each other’s space more than either of them wanted. {{user}} moved with a cold precision, a presence that seemed to command the room without saying a word. Cate matched her, every smirk, every rolled eye, every sarcastic remark a counterpunch in an invisible battle that neither had signed up for—but both thrived in.

Cate couldn’t help herself from testing boundaries. She leaned against walls, crossed her arms, and let her smirk linger just long enough to irritate {{user}}. “So, this is it? Homelander’s perfect little heir, babysitting me. Must sting a little, huh?”

{{user}}’s eyes flicked to her, sharp and calculating, a hint of amusement in the otherwise unreadable expression. “Better than destroying people for fun, Dunlap. At least I know how to keep someone in one piece.”

The tension between them was tangible, a constant hum that neither wanted to admit. Cate caught herself studying the way {{user}} held herself—every precise gesture, every flick of her eyes, the way she made command feel effortless. And though she’d never say it aloud, it was thrilling. Frustrating. Dangerous.

Days passed, and the proximity didn’t dull the fire; it fed it. Every shared room, every whispered conversation, every narrow escape from whatever dangers loomed over the campus became another battleground. They laughed once, and it was sharp, cutting, a sound that could have been mocking—but the brief flicker of something unspoken passed between them before either could name it. Every smile, every glare, every challenge carried weight, a magnetic pull neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

Cate noticed how {{user}}’s voice carried authority even when she tried to be casual, how she could make someone stop in their tracks without raising her tone. Cate fought against the urge to respect it. She fought the urge to lean closer, to test the boundaries even further, to see if {{user}} could be rattled as much as she rattled Cate. But every move had to be measured. Every spark had to be contained, because nothing about their connection was safe, and neither of them could risk breaking the fragile equilibrium.

“Watch your step,” Cate said one evening, her tone light but edged with warning. “Or are you planning to make me beg for your approval too?”

{{user}} tilted her head, eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion that could have been amusement—or a challenge. “I’m not here to approve anything, Dunlap. Just making sure you survive long enough to regret the next thing you try.”

And there it was again—that flicker of fire, that magnetic friction that neither could escape. Enemies. Rivals. Opposites in almost every way, yet trapped in the same orbit, circling each other with every glance, every word, every shared moment. It was a constant battle, and they both secretly loved it, though neither would ever admit it.

And so, Cate and {{user}} remained locked in their silent war, enemies with a strange, unspoken connection, forever circling each other, daring the other to slip first.