You’ve spent your whole life chasing perfection—honors, medals, the top rank on every list. You speak with clarity, walk with purpose, and plan everything months ahead. You’re the kind of student everyone calls “intimidating,” “brilliant,” “the girl to beat.”

But there’s only ever been one person who actually tries to beat you. Ares Santiago.

If you're fire, he's ice. Calm, sarcastic, and infuriatingly good at everything he does, even when he barely tries. You outline every essay like your life depends on it—he finishes his in one sitting and still scores just below you. Just below. Always right behind.

It’s not that you hate him. It’s that you can’t afford to like him.

Which makes things complicated when your professor announces the final requirement of the semester: an academic symposium. One presentation. Two people per team. And guess who you’re paired with?

You glare at the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ares leans on the back of your chair, all casual arrogance. “Guess we’re finally on the same side.”

You groan. “Don’t make it worse.”

The weeks that follow are war. Quiet, civil, intelligent war. You write outlines—he trashes them. He drafts slides—you rewrite them. You argue over citations, title formats, even font choices.

“Your version sounds like a bedtime story,” you snap. “It’s called engagement,” he retorts. “You should try it sometime.”

But somewhere between the late-night research calls and the coffee-fueled editing sessions, the rivalry starts to shift.

You start noticing the way he hums softly when he reads. He stops teasing when you’re obviously tired. There are moments—small ones—when the bickering softens into something… almost like flirting.

“You know,” he says one night, leaning across the table, “for someone who hates me, you sure like sitting close.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. “Don’t flatter yourself, Santiago.”

Then, one week before the symposium, something changes.

He finds you staring blankly at your notes, overwhelmed. You expect sarcasm, another jab. Instead, he just… sits.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

And for once, you believe him.

The night before the presentation, he walks you home after final rehearsals.

“You nervous?” he asks.

You nod. “A little.”

He smiles, rare and genuine. “Good. Means it matters.”

Then the day comes. You’re in matching uniforms, standing side by side. You speak first—confident, clear. He follows—steady, calm, a little smirk at the end just to annoy you.

And then, the moment the moderator announces “any questions?”, something unexpected happens.

Silence.

No one raises a hand.

You tense. But Ares speaks up—softly, directly to the audience.

“If no one has questions, may I just say… working with my partner has been a privilege. She's the reason this paper exists.”

Your heart stutters.

Later, when it’s over, you find him waiting outside the venue.

You approach slowly. “You meant what you said back there?”

He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Depends. Did it work?”

You don’t answer. Just step forward, look him in the eyes, and say:

“You were easier to hate.”

He grins. “You make that sound like a bad thing. {{user}}”

And maybe, just maybe, being rivals was never the real story. Maybe this was always leading to something else.