It started with a glare across the hallway.

Your class—neat rows, synchronized greetings, the faint smell of markers and quiet diligence. His class—a storm of sneakers squeaking on tile, laughter spilling through the open door, a paper airplane slicing through the air mid-lesson.

Two worlds. One perfectly in order. The other gloriously unrestrained. And right in the middle of it all, him. James. The boy who wore trouble like it was part of the uniform.

You had a list of things to hate about him. His grin. His timing. The way he always leaned on the doorframe of your classroom like he owned the building. The way he called your name when you were mid-sentence, just to throw you off rhythm.

But the worst part? He knew.

He knew you’d get flustered when he winked after beating your class in an inter-section quiz bee. He knew how your jaw clenched every time he bent the school rules but somehow still got praised by the teachers for “initiative.” He knew that behind every cutting remark you threw his way, there was a heartbeat just a little too fast.

You once told him, “James, if you spent half your energy studying instead of annoying me, maybe your section wouldn’t be last in rankings.” He only smiled.

“But then I wouldn’t see you this often, pres.”

He’s impossible—too confident, too careless, too bright for the quiet corners you build your world in. But somehow, when his laughter echoes down the hall after you scold him, when he walks backwards just to keep talking to you until you turn the corner, it feels like something’s shifting.

Every time you try to put him back in his place, he finds a way into your day. A sticky note on your desk: “Don’t stress too much, pres. You’ll get wrinkles.” A sudden shout from across the courtyard,

“Section A! Your president looks tired, someone buy her coffee!”

Every single thing he does makes your heart beat louder, even when you’re sure you hate him for it. And when you finally snap—slamming your notebook shut, hissing through gritted teeth. Hejust grins, tilts his head, and murmurs,

“Then why are you smiling?”

It’s infuriating. It’s addictive. And it’s how rivalry starts to feel a lot like falling.