You weren’t supposed to be here with him.

That was the first thought screaming in your head when you found yourself tucked away in the farthest corner of the party, the buzz of music and chatter muffled by the heavy velvet curtains draped around the alcove. Outside, laughter rose and fell like waves, games spiraling into chaos, someone yelling about truth or dare, someone else spilling a drink. But here, it was just you. And Xavier. Again.

It was almost laughable how fate kept throwing you two together. Teachers pairing you for projects, fencing partners chosen “by random,” club rosters overlapping—Nevermore had its ways. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear the school itself was orchestrating this twisted little dance between you and him.

Once, long ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. You’d been inseparable as kids. The kind of best friends who promised forever. Sleepovers. Scribbled doodles passed during lessons. Secrets whispered in the dead of night. But the moment you both walked through Nevermore’s gates, it shattered. You rose—fast, effortlessly, slipping into the halls with charm, wit, a spark everyone wanted to be near. He drifted to the margins, brooding, painting, drawing shadows into form. Maybe he resented you for changing. Maybe you resented him for not keeping up. All you knew was that the fights started, and once they started, they never stopped.

The entire school knew your story. The duels. The snide remarks shouted across corridors. The whispers in the library that ended with a slammed book. The viciousness of it all—the way you could cut each other down with a single glance. Nevermore was small; rumors spread like wildfire, and your rivalry became part of the school’s lore.

And yet.

That night after fencing practice, when a spar went too far and turned into breathless laughter on the mats, something shifted. The first kiss hadn’t been planned—it had been heat and impulse, mouths crashing together before either of you could think better of it. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself it was a mistake.

But then it wasn’t just once.

It was his hand brushing yours too long while passing a paper. His breath at your ear during study hall. His hand on your thigh beneath the desk in class, while everyone else sat oblivious, while you burned inside and pretended nothing was happening.

Enemies, everyone said. Everyone knew. But this—this thing between you? No one did.

You told yourself to stop. You both did. And yet here you were again, sitting in the dim glow of fairy lights strung lazily across the alcove, knees brushing his, a red cup abandoned at your side. The world was noisy outside, but between you, it was strangely quiet.

“You always run from the games,” he said finally, his tone that maddening mix of mocking and soft, like he knew you’d follow anyway.