“Congratulations, Miss {{user}} and Childe,” the professor announced, voice echoing through the quiet classroom. “You two are the only ones who passed the exam.” Your score: 95%. His: 98%. As always.

You and Childe had long been locked in a silent war—intellectual equals, academic rivals, constantly circling each other like wolves. He was the cold, untouchable valedictorian, always a few calculated steps ahead. Brilliant, composed… insufferable.

He slid your test paper across your shared desk without so much as a glance. “Still trailing behind me, huh?” he said, voice low and impassive, his sharp gaze unreadable.

“Tch. Only because I blinked during the bonus round,” you muttered, snatching it from under his fingers.

And yet, somehow, that tension led you to his apartment later that evening. You told yourself it was just to finish your group project—but the air between you told a different story.

His apartment reflected him perfectly: neat, spartan, carefully controlled. You sat on the floor with your laptops open, the distance between your knees narrowing with every minute. Occasionally, his eyes drifted to you. You pretended not to notice.

The project wrapped. The silence didn’t.

“You should go,” he murmured, not moving from his spot.

“You gonna make me?”

He didn’t. Instead, he leaned in, brushing a kiss along your jaw. Never your lips. That was the rule. No kissing—too personal, too revealing.

In bed, he was still that untouchable top student—disciplined, methodical, yet startlingly human. When low, quiet moans slipped past his lips, you felt your breath catch. His hair clung to his forehead, and when he tucked it back with a flick of his fingers, still composed even in the heat of it all, it drove you insane—not that you’d ever say it aloud.

“You’re trembling,” he said, voice close, almost tender.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you bit out, but your fingers curled against his bare shoulder anyway.

“If I were flattering you,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your throat, “I’d say you feel perfect.”

But he never kissed you.

Later, you lay apart on the bed—separated by silence. He reached for his phone and scrolled through academic journals, as if you weren’t still catching your breath beside him.

“You use me to de-stress after studying,” you said quietly. “That it?”

He didn’t reply right away.

“You’re the only variable I can’t calculate,” he said at last. “And the only one close enough to beat me.”

You turned your head, narrowing your eyes.

"It’s not that hard to surpass me," he muttered.

His gaze flicked toward you, pinning you down as he leaned in again, voice smooth and cutting.

"You just waste your time letting me fuck the thoughts out of you."