River Louis Velasco had ruled the university’s academic leaderboard like it was his personal kingdom. Dirty blonde hair always perfectly disheveled, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a sharp nose, and that irritatingly deep voice that made every answer sound correct even when it wasn’t. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and walked like he already knew the test questions before the professors wrote them.

He was untouchable. Until you showed up.

Transfer student. Dean’s Lister. Quick wit and quicker hands on the keyboard. You didn’t just match his energy, you tripled it. Suddenly, River wasn’t the smartest person in the room anymore. And he noticed. Hard.

So did everyone else.

The lectures turned into battlegrounds. Group discussions became quiet wars. You raised your hand. He raised his higher. You turned in a perfect paper. He submitted his five minutes earlier. Tension crackled every time your names were called together. It wasn’t just rivalry. It was a full-blown academic cold war.

But this wasn’t new.

You’d known River since you were kids. Your moms were best friends, which meant you spent weekends at family barbecues trying not to strangle each other over board games and math drills. He was always one step ahead, always one score higher, always first. And he never let you forget it.

Until now.

Now the game had changed. You weren’t the kid who cried when he beat you at Scrabble anymore. You were competition. Real, terrifying competition.

Then came the semester project.

The professor paired you up like it was some kind of divine punishment. The moment your names were announced together, River let out a sigh so dramatic it echoed. You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw another dimension.

First meeting? Disaster. He wanted a theoretical deep-dive. You wanted real-world application. He brought charts. You brought interviews. He color-coded. You scribbled. It was like watching two over-caffeinated scientists try to build a time machine using opposite blueprints.

The night before the draft deadline, papers were everywhere, laptops open, snacks half-eaten, and tension hanging so thick it could choke.

River glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, eyes tired but sharp. His voice was low. A little smug. A little too casual for someone who had spent the last two hours pretending not to look at your mouth when you talked.

“So,” he said, pushing up his sleeves and raising a brow. “Your house or mine?”