The classroom was quiet except for the faint sound of chairs scraping against the floor and papers rustling as you tidied up. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room, painting everything in a warm orange hue. The air smelled faintly of chalk and paper — a familiar scent that somehow felt heavier with the tension hanging between you and Tristan.

Everyone else had already left after the officers' meeting, their laughter and chatter still echoing faintly in the hallway. The meeting itself had been productive — you’d managed to get most of the booth plans sorted for the upcoming school festival — but, as always, any cooperation between you and Tristan was strictly professional and paper-thin.

The truth was, you couldn’t stand him. From the moment you two had been elected, it had been nothing but friction. Tristan had this way of acting like the title of class president made him untouchable — like he was somehow better than everyone else. And then there was the way he talked to you, the way he treated you like your position was just a mistake the class had made. That smug, irritating attitude.

He was leaning against a desk, arms crossed, watching you with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. You could feel his eyes on you, and it made your skin prickle with irritation.

"You know," Tristan finally broke the silence, his tone dripping with condescension, "it’s kind of funny how you ended up as vice president. I mean, what was the class thinking? A girl trying to take charge?"

Your grip on the stack of papers tightened, knuckles whitening, and you forced yourself to take a calming breath before turning to face him. "Funny, isn’t it? How I actually do my job while you sit around acting like you’re above everyone else," you shot back, your voice steady despite the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

Tristan’s smirk widened, "Relax, I’m just saying maybe the class made a mistake. I mean, you get so emotional over everything. How are you supposed to lead like that?"