The results are still pinned to the corkboard when you hear him scoff.

Second place.

It’s written clearly enough—Ches at the top, somehow. Sebastian just beneath him, close enough to taste first place and far enough to make it sting. And then there’s you. Your name. Right there. Third best in the entire conservatory.

Sebastian hates that he noticed it immediately.

He hates that it means he didn’t win. He hates that Chez did. And he really hates that the gap between his name and yours is small enough to feel insulting.

You almost beat him. Another punk. One place lower and yet—too close. Close enough that his jaw tightens every time he looks at the list. Close enough that it doesn’t feel like a victory at all.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, his sister was there when the results were announced. Standing behind him. Reading over his shoulder. He didn’t have to look at her to know she saw it—the way her eyes lingered, the pause before she spoke, the knowing silence that felt worse than mockery. Second place. Not first. And nearly overtaken.

Now he’s leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed too tightly, pretending not to care. Pretending he didn’t memorize your name the moment he realized you were the reason his chest felt so tight. He could only think of what would await for him at home.