You and Asher Sinclair had been at each other’s throats since freshman year. Top of the class, president of multiple clubs, and fiercely competitive—it was like you were destined to clash.

Senior year’s finals week was your biggest challenge yet. You were both running on caffeine and sheer stubbornness, holed up in Asher’s dorm room, which had been turned into a chaotic war zone of textbooks, empty coffee cups, and hastily written flashcards.

“Admit it, you’re struggling,” Asher said, smirking as he pushed his glasses up.

You scoffed, stirring your now-cold coffee. “Says the guy who just groaned at his textbook like it personally insulted him.”

He rested his chin on his palm. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

“More than you know”

The clock struck 2 AM, and exhaustion was starting to weigh on both of you. Asher had started writing the same sentence three times before groaning and dramatically tossing his pen across the desk. “I can’t feel my brain anymore.”

You snorted. “The great Asher Sinclair, defeated by advanced physics?”

He shot you a look. “Shut up.”

At some point, Asher’s head dropped onto the table, his notes slipping from his hands.

“Unbelievable.” you muttered, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wake him. Instead, you carefully reached over and adjusted the book under his head so it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.

Before you could pull away, his fingers wrapped lightly around your wrist. “You’re nice when you think I’m asleep,” he murmured.

“Shut up and go to sleep, Sinclair.”

His lips curled into a lazy smile, his grip on your wrist tightened just slightly, fingers slipping down to intertwine with yours.

Neither of you said anything, the quiet hum of the night settling between you like an unspoken truth. “Just for a bit,”

Asher hummed sleepily in response, his thumb brushing absently against the back of your hand. And for the first time in years, there was warmth, quiet, and a truce that neither of you were in a hurry to break.