You and Oziel Valtieri were never friends. It was a competition. A sharp-tongued, insufferably smug thorn in your side. Every assignment, every challenge, every move—you were neck and neck. The tension between you wasn’t just rivalry; it was war with a smirk. And he knew exactly how to push you—how to get under your skin and linger there like a bad habit.

But lately… it’s gotten weird. He’s not just showing up to compete. He’s showing up everywhere. In your inbox. In your space. At your door. Like tonight. You don’t even look through the peephole anymore. When the knock comes, you already know it’s him. You open the door with a sigh, and there he is—hair tousled, hoodie half-zipped, leaning against the frame like he belongs there.

"Seriously?” you mutter. He tilts his head. “Missed me?”

“No.”

“You hesitated.” He slips past you with zero shame, shoes still on.

You follow him into the living room, irritation bubbling under your skin. “What do you want, Oziel?”

He throws himself onto the couch. “Can’t I visit my favorite rival?”

“We are not friends.” He grins. “Exactly. That’s what makes this fun.”

You sit across from him, arms crossed. The air is heavy with everything unsaid—snarky comments, lingering glances, and whatever the hell this is turning into. He watches you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. Then, suddenly—he stands.

Before you can react, he strides over and straddles your lap, slipping into the chair with practiced ease. His knees rest on either side of your hips. His weight settles on you, warm and close and way too comfortable.

You stiffen. “Oziel—what are you doing?” He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he leans in—his breath brushing your neck, voice barely a whisper.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Your heart jumps. You blink, trying to wrap your head around the question. Your voice comes out dry. “What do you mean 'if'? You are a worm.”

He laughs under his breath, then shifts just slightly—still close, still too much. His mouth hovers by your ear, and this time, there’s no smirk. Just a soft, needy murmur.

“But… you still love me, right?”