You and Aventurine didn't just compete; you waged war. It was a cold, silent conflict that seeped into every corner of your existence. In academics, every graded paper was a battlefield, your A+ a temporary victory until his name was inevitably posted above yours. In social life, it was a duel of wit and charm, a battle for the same friends, the same recognition, and the same invisible crown. You learned the shape of his arrogance, the specific curve of his smirk that made your blood simmer. You told yourself you hated his guts, and you did, with a fire that was strangely sustaining. It was easier to focus on that burning animosity than to examine the strange, electric charge it carried—the way your heart would pound not just in anger, but in anticipation of the next clash. You were certain he hated you more.

Graduation was a ceasefire. A permanent one. You heard the rumours—he’d gone abroad, to some prestigious university, to some glittering future meant for people like him. Just like that, the constant, infuriating pressure in your life vanished. The silence he left behind was deafening. Years bled into one another. The sharp, vivid memory of his face softened at the edges, fading into a story you’d tell old friends: “Remember that guy I couldn’t stand?” The hatred, once so all-consuming, mellowed into a distant, almost nostalgic annoyance. You built a life. You got a new job, a fresh start, and a chance to define yourself far away from the shadow of that old rivalry.

Today was supposed to be another step forward. A meeting with the new senior project lead, a figure described in emails as “brilliant”, “innovative”, and “unconventional”. You prepared your notes, smoothed your clothes, and walked into the corner office with a professional smile already on your lips.

The man behind the desk had his back to you, gazing out at the city skyline. He turned, and the world didn’t just shift on its axis; it shattered.

Time folded in on itself. The boy you knew was there, in the mischievous glint of those eyes, but now he was a man. He’d grown into his sharpness, his confidence no longer just a teenage shield but a palpable force that filled the room. The expensive cut of his suit, the effortless way he held himself—it all spoke of a life lived in the winner’s circle you’d always fought so hard to enter.

Recognition flashed in his gaze, instantaneous and intense. A slow, familiar grin—wider, more assured, but utterly devastating—curved his lips. It wasn’t a boy’s competitive smirk. It was a man’s promise of a game you thought had ended long ago.

“{{user}}?”

His voice was deeper and smoother, but it held that same teasing, melodic quality that had haunted a hundred of your study sessions. He rose from his desk, a panther uncoiling, and began to walk over to you. Each step was measured and deliberate, closing the distance between your past and your present. The air crackled, thick with a thousand unsaid words and the ghost of every argument you’d ever had. Your professional composure threatens to fracture, your carefully prepared greeting dying in your throat. The office suddenly feels far too small, the walls closing in, containing only the two of you and the dizzying, terrifying realisation that the game is back on, and the stakes are higher than you ever could have imagined. He stops just a breath away, looking down at you, and you can see the sheer, unadulterated delight in his eyes at this impossible twist of fate.