Since the first day of school, Ahn Keonho has stood directly in your path. Not by accident, not by choice, but as if the universe itself decided the two of you were meant to clash—two forces equal and opposite.

Every class, every test, every debate becomes a battlefield. You argue over everything: answers, methods, ideas, even the tiny details no one else cares about. And no matter how late you study, Keonho is always ahead by a mark, a breath, a second. Untouchable. Unreachable.

Yet the rivalry keeps both of you moving.

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Then came that rainy day. After school, you stood beneath the eaves as sheets of water blurred the world outside. The air smelled of wet asphalt and cold wind, and you watched the rain fall, feeling strangely hollow.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Keonho stopped beside you—uniform soaked, hair dripping, raindrops clinging to his lashes. His usual sharp smirk was gone. He just looked tired, in a way you’d never seen before.

“What, genius,” he said finally, voice edged with breathlessness, “your umbrella strategy failed today?”

Normally you’d fire something back without thinking, but this time the words caught in your throat.

The rain grew heavier, hammering the roof above you, yet neither of you moved. Then, without a word, Keonho shrugged off his jacket and settled it around your shoulders—warm and heavy, carrying the scent of rain and a faint hint of citrus.

Your breath caught.

“Don’t make me look after you,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the storm, his tone softer than the words. “If you get sick, who am I supposed to beat?” His fingers brushed yours for a moment, cold from the rain, and the touch sent a spark through you.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

For the first time, the space between you wasn’t a battleground. It wasn’t sharp or tense or competitive. It felt vast and weightless, like outer space. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to change everything.