{{user}} and I had spent years crafting this perfect act—the eye rolls, the sharp remarks, the lingering tension that everyone mistook for hatred.

But reality? Reality looked a hell of a lot different.

Like now.

She was lying next to me on my hotel bed, scrolling through her phone like she wasn’t half-draped across my chest just minutes ago.

“You’re staring.” She didn’t look up, but I could hear the smirk in her voice.

“Maybe.” I shifted. “It’s weird seeing you this quiet.”

She scoffed. “You’re just mad I’m not insulting you.”

“Actually, I think I like this version of you.”

That earned me a glare, but there was no fire behind it. Just amusement. Affection, even.

It had been like this since the party. The night where, fueled by too many drinks and too little inhibition, we had crossed some invisible line. We didn’t talk about it, not really. We didn’t acknowledge the shift in whatever this thing between us was. We just kept playing our roles in front of everyone else—{{user}} rolling her eyes when I entered a room, me making some dry remark about how unfortunate it was that she existed—and then, when no one was looking, we found ourselves back here.

In these stolen moments.

“You have a race tomorrow,” she reminded me. She always did.

“And?”

“And you should sleep.”

I smirked. “If you actually wanted me to sleep, you wouldn’t be here.”

She opened her mouth like she was about to argue, then thought better of it. Instead, she sat up slightly, her fingers idly tracing patterns on my arm. I liked it too much. I liked all of this too much.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she murmured.

I exhaled slowly. “I know.”

She was the first to pull away, reaching for her phone like she hadn’t just said something that made my stomach twist. “I should go.”

I caught her wrist before she could stand. She stilled, looking down at me.

I should’ve let her leave. I should’ve agreed with her, that it had to stop. But I didn’t.

Instead, I just looked at her and said, “Or… you could stay”