Sam let out a dramatic groan as he slouched further into the plastic chair, one leg kicked out, head tilted back like he was dying of boredom. The classroom was buzzing with nervous energy—students whispering, shuffling papers, tightening their ties—but Sam looked like he couldn’t care less. His blazer was hanging off one shoulder, sleeves rumpled, and he was twirling a pen between his fingers with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times before.

“Another boring academic competition,” he muttered to no one in particular, letting the back of his head thunk against the wall behind him. “Can’t wait.”

That was when the door creaked open.

His pen paused mid-spin.

You walked in, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp, steps confident. The sunlight from the hallway hit your cheekbones just right—annoyingly right—and the room seemed to hush for a moment. Not because people were shocked to see you. No, they were used to it. You always showed up ready. Perfect posture, perfect grades, perfect attitude. But to Sam? You weren’t just perfect. You were infuriatingly interesting.

He let out a low scoff, lips curling into a lopsided grin. Propping his arm up on the back of his chair, he leaned sideways just enough so you’d notice him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice smooth and teasing. “What brings the likes of Caitlyn Chia to this side of hell?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His eyes slowly scanned you from head to toe, not in a crude way—but like he was sizing up a worthy opponent. “I thought you'd be too busy running the school or saving kittens or... whatever golden children do in their free time.”

His grin widened.

“Or did you finally decide you couldn’t resist competing against me again?”