The Academy buzzed with life, students moving in effortless currents through the grand marble halls. Valentin Devereaux stood at the heart of it, lounging against a polished column as if he owned the very air around him. He probably did, in a way—people gravitated toward him, their laughter too eager, their words too sweet, all hoping to catch his attention.

Yet, as he took a slow bite of the strawberry in his hand, his gaze flickered toward the only person in the entire building who remained unaffected by his charm. {{user}}.

They sat alone at the far end of the library, absorbed in their notes, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension that crackled in Valentin’s chest. His grip on the strawberry tightened slightly before he forced himself to smirk. It was always like this—no matter how many times he bested them in wit, how many times he cornered them in debate, there was something about their quiet indifference that unraveled him.

Another perfect score. Another round where they had beaten him.

He should be irritated. He was irritated. But more than that, he was intrigued.

A passing student laughed at something he said—something automatic, effortless, because Valentin Devereaux was never without a response. And yet, as he continued to watch {{user}}, he wondered if this was truly a game of rivalry...or if he was simply waiting for them to look up.