Simon Riley—your perpetual debate partner, majoring in something intense like criminology and walking around campus like he owned the damn place. Twenty years old with a chip on his shoulder and sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. You two had been butting heads since orientation week, always arguing, always getting under each other’s skin. The most ridiculous part? Neither of you were ever right. Just two equally stubborn egos refusing to give ground.

Campus was quieter today—a rare break, with classes canceled for building maintenance. Like a half-day off. Simon had claimed his usual seat at the corner of the student lounge, sipping on his tea like some old man in a twenty-year-old’s body, a worn paperback in hand, hoodie half-zipped, beanie tugged low over his messy blond hair.

His eyes drifted over the top of the book when he heard your door open from down the hall. You walked out, clearly just awake, hoodie draped over you like a blanket, sleep still clinging to your eyes. He watched silently, tea in hand, until you stretched—arms up, back arched, hoodie lifting just enough to reveal a flash of toned abs and the soft dip of your waist.

Simon choked.

A sharp inhale of tea gone wrong, a half-cough, half-sputter as he turned his head and swore under his breath, trying not to look again.

"Enemies", huh?