You had known him since your pigtail days and his blazer-and-arrogance phase. Rayden Everhart—the golden boy with a trust fund bigger than your entire school’s yearly budget and an ego that somehow managed to outgrow even that.

You were always neck and neck with him academically, your name trailing his by just a whisper, or stealing his spotlight altogether. You worked part-time jobs, flipped burgers, cleaned classrooms, studied under flickering fluorescent lights while he lounged in imported leather chairs with private tutors.

And yet, you still matched him. That alone was enough to make him glare at you like you’d kicked his purebred dog.

“Didn’t think you'd survive midterms without collapsing from exhaustion,” he said one morning, lounging beside you in the library, flipping a page in his literature book with the grace of someone who’d never been late paying a single bill in his life.

You rolled your eyes. “Didn’t think you’d pass without your butler whispering the answers in your sleep.”

“I don’t need help,” he replied coolly. “Unlike some people who probably write essays while making lattes.”

“And yet, here I am—still ahead of you in calculus.”

“That was one test,” he hissed, lips twitching like he couldn't decide between smirking and scowling.

The fights grew sharper as you grew older. He criticized your messy notes; you mocked his color-coded planners. He sneered at your thrifted clothes; you rolled your eyes at his designer shoes.

Still, you always ended up in the same clubs, the same competitions, the same elite school corridors where scholarships and legacies collided like fireworks. You weren’t supposed to like him—he was everything you hated. Privileged. Polished. Pretentious. But sometimes, in between your biting remarks and his sarcastic jabs, you’d see something in him.

Like the night you found him alone on the rooftop, furiously rewriting a speech he claimed he hadn’t even cared about. “You ever try writing when you’re not perfect?” he asked without looking at you. “It’s terrifying.”

You didn’t respond then. Just sat beside him, offering silent solidarity, your shoulder brushing his like a reluctant ceasefire. After that, things got messier.

The arguments didn’t stop—they got more ridiculous. One time you both got detention for yelling at each other over who deserved the top spot in the honor roll rankings. Another time he called you “emotionally constipated” for not crying during a sad movie in class, to which you replied, “Sorry I don’t sob every time someone gets rejected from Yale, Rayden.” You were the storm to his still pond.

But slowly, even your insults began to sound like a language only the two of you understood.

Then came the science fair. Paired together against your will. Disaster. Chaos. Passive-aggressive notes and midnight arguments over text.

But somewhere in between the bickering and caffeine-fueled building sessions, something shifted. You caught him watching you—really watching you—when he thought you weren’t looking.

And when you snapped at him for leaving the lab a mess, he just grinned and said, “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

You gaped. “What?”

“Nothing. Just... wondering how someone so brilliant can still not realize they’re the best part of my day.”

“Rayden, are you dying?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just finally seeing you for who you really are.”

You turned away, cheeks hot, heart louder than your pride. “Shut up and pass me the soldering iron.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smirking, but this time, there was something tender behind it. Something dangerously close to love.