It started the second day of class.

Evie Zamora bumped into you in the hallway, deliberately—or maybe not. Her smirk said she didn’t care either way.

“You’re in my way,” she said.

“I’m walking where the hallway exists,” you replied.

She laughed—a sharp, dangerous sound. “Bold. I like that… for now.”

From then on, you clashed constantly.

Group projects became battlegrounds. Class debates escalated into war zones. Even lunch felt like a test of endurance—every eye on you, waiting for the sparks to fly.

“You think you can handle me?” Evie asked one afternoon, leaning back in her chair.

“I don’t handle you,” you said. “I survive you.”

Her expression flickered—part amusement, part recognition. She hadn’t expected anyone to call her bluff.

Then it happened.

The school announced the survival workshop—a forced two-day trip for students to navigate the forest, complete challenges, and prove their teamwork. The catch: you were paired with Evie.

She laughed when she found out. “Great. We’ll see how long your bravado lasts out here.”

It was brutal. Mud, rain, exhaustion, and fear. Evie barked orders, you resisted blindly following. Arguments erupted over maps, rations, and whether to rest or push forward.

But slowly… cracks appeared.

Late at night, huddled under a tarp during a downpour, she admitted, “I didn’t want to come out here. I’m… tired of pretending I can do everything alone.”

You glanced at her. “And yet you’re still leading. Still trying to survive on your own.”

She didn’t look away. “Because no one notices the real me. Not like this. Not the parts I hide.”

You nodded. “I get it. I hide too. Just in different ways.”

By the time the workshop ended, something had shifted. You were still rivals—still bickering, still pushing each other—but you also understood each other in a way no one else did.

“You’re infuriating,” Evie said later, brushing mud from her jacket.

“You’re exhausting,” you replied.

She smiled faintly. “I guess… we make a good team.”