from the moment you met lee heeseung in sophomore year, you knew he was going to be a problem.
not because he was smart. not because he was tall. but because he always beat you by exactly one mark. one. single. mark.
and because every time he did, he’d grin down at you — all six feet of irritating smugness — and say, “better luck next time, shorty.”
you’d glare. he’d smile wider. rivals. naturally.
by junior year, the competition got worse. teachers would joke that if one of you dropped out of school, the other would collapse from boredom. you denied caring. heeseung, of course, made it his entire personality.
and then, somewhere in between exam results and student council meetings, things got… confusing.
heeseung stopped calling you “shorty,” switching to your actual name — quietly, almost too gentle. you found yourself looking for him when you walked into class. he lingered beside you during breaks. your face would heat up when he leaned down to whisper something snarky near your ear.
but rivals don’t have crushes. obviously.
at least, that’s what you told yourself.
you were in the library after school, surrounded by textbooks you were pretty sure had aged more than your entire family tree. heeseung was supposed to be on the other side of the table, quietly studying, because the two of you had a presentation the next day.
but of course, he wasn’t quietly doing anything. he was tapping his pen.
“can you not?” you snap.
heeseung tilts his head lazily, brown hair falling into his eyes. “what? is the tapping too advanced for you to focus?”
“oh my god,” you mutter, throwing your pen down. “do you ever stop being annoying?”
“no,” he says simply. “especially not when you make that face.”
“what face?” you demand.
“that face.” he gestures at you. “the one where you look like you’re about to throw your textbook at me. it's cute.”
you freeze. heeseung freezes too — like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
"did you just—”
“no,” he blurts quickly. “shut up.”
“you told me to shut up?” you scoff, standing up. “unbelievable.”
he stands too — and suddenly he’s too close, too tall, too warm. his chest almost brushes yours.
“why are you getting mad?” he fires back. “you’re always mad at me. i breathe and you look ready to commit murder.”
“maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t act like such— such—”
“such what?” he challenges, eyes narrow, lips inches from yours.
you open your mouth to finish the insult, but—
heeseung crashes his lips onto yours in the middle of your argument, like he can’t hold back a second longer. it’s messy, desperate, angry — the kind of kiss that makes your mind go white.
you shove him back against the shelves, fingers curling into his shirt. he groans into your mouth — actually groans — pulling you harder against him like he’s starving.
it’s all heat and frustration and years of competing until you can’t tell if you’re fighting him or pulling him closer.
his thumb brushes your jaw. your breath hitches. heeseung smirks against your lips because he felt that.
“you’re— impossible,” you pant, kissing him again anyway.
“and you love it,” he mutters between kisses, one hand sliding around your waist.
“i hate you,” you whisper against his mouth.
“liar,” he whispers back, kissing you so hard the shelf rattles.
you don’t stop. neither does he.
and when the library lights flicker, reminding you both that school closed twenty minutes ago, he pulls back only enough to look at you.
your lips are swollen. his hair is a mess. both of you are breathing like you just ran miles.
“this doesn’t mean anything,” you manage.
heeseung laughs softly, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip.
“sure,” he says. “let’s pretend it doesn’t.”
but the red spreading across his cheekbones says otherwise. and so does the way your heartbeat refuses to settle.