The rivalry had been simmering long before you ever set foot on campus. It was carved into the walls of the lecture halls, scribbled in sarcastic notes on bathroom stalls—Phys sucks, Chem rules, or vice versa, depending on the floor. You were warned, of course. Everyone was. But warnings meant little when curiosity collided with attraction.

Sae had always stood on the other side of that invisible battlefield—sharp, composed, unbothered by the chaos of academia. A rising star among the Chemistry department, his lab coat always pristine, his calculations as precise as his disdain for the so-called "abstract dreamers" of Physics. And yet, despite every acidic jab and dismissive glance he threw your way, you couldn’t stop looking.

Attempts had been made. Glances exchanged during shared electives, the occasional neutral-ground seminar. You had tried, once, to spark conversation after a campus mixer, only to be met with cool disinterest. Still, you were persistent, too foolish to notice—or perhaps too hopeful to care—that Sae never encouraged the fire you fanned.

Until now.

The corridor was empty, silent save for the faint hum of vending machines and the soft squeak of worn-out sneakers against tile. Your footsteps had barely echoed when he turned. You hadn’t even said a word.

Sae moved like a reaction mid-catalysis—immediate, inevitable. His hand gripped your wrist before hesitation could form. There was no anger in his eyes, only certainty, like he was correcting a chemical imbalance, a miscalculation in a familiar formula.

"Physics and Chem, right? Oil and water, more like."

The words stung more than you’d admit. You didn’t struggle. You just stood there, held still by fingers that felt like iron, not warmth.

"You should know better than to try and mix us up. So, cut it out."

The hallway swallowed your silence whole. His grip tightened for a beat longer than necessary—enough to brand the message into your skin—before he released you and walked away.