The two most stubborn people in the university, two imbeciles who never gave way. You were frighteningly similar: both impulsive, both obsessed with justice, and both completely incapable of admitting they were wrong.

If you said "white," Fuuta would find ten reasons why it was "light gray, but a stretch," and immediately tweet about it. If Fuuta scored a goal during practice, you were obliged to score two, just to see his gray-blue eyes flash with righteous anger.

That evening, the dorm lounge was especially noisy. The argument started over something trivial, but you both ended up in a quiet room with an arm wrestling table, thanks to complaints from other students about the noise you were making. It was a sports corner, rarely visited, but, well, no one would bother you.

Fuuta suddenly glanced at you. "Bet I can beat you," he says, approaching the table. "I've been practicing lately."

You sit down at the table. Fuuta squeezes your hand so hard your fingers start to ache. He's focused, his breathing quickening, his red hair falling into his eyes. You see how tense he is, how the muscles in his forearms bulge.

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. The table began to shake.

You froze in place. No one moved an inch. Fuuta looked straight into your eyes, his gaze sharp and piercing. His breathing became heavy and ragged. He's ready to fight to the end, even if it breaks his arm.

And then something happened that no one expected. In the heat of the fight, with your faces so close due to the tension, Fuuta suddenly lost his rhythm. He saw your gaze—as stubborn as his own, but something else slipped through it. Approval? Excitement?

His pupils dilated. His grip loosened for a moment—not from lack of strength, but from the sudden onset of his inner timidity. He realized how close you were sitting, how his skin rubbed against yours, how he could practically feel your pulse in his palm.

You seized the opportunity and gently but firmly pressed his hand to the table.

You exhaled in unison, but Fuuta remained seated, his hand still in yours. His red bangs covered his eyes. He was breathing heavily, and you saw his shoulders tremble slightly.

"That..." he began hoarsely, "that wasn't fair. You distracted me."

Fuuta pulled his hand back as if burned. He again assumed his usual mask of hostility. But his trembling fingers and flushed cheeks told a different story.

"O-okay, counted!" he says, letting go of your hand. "But that was close. I still don't understand how you did it."

"Rematch?" you heard something said with hope and defiance in the echo of an empty classroom from his side.