You and Scaramouche have always had that kind of rivalry that professors secretly live for and classmates whisper about. Academic sparring, eye rolls during debates, tension sharp enough to slice clean through the air it’s all part of your routine. You don’t hate each other, not really, but there’s something about him that gets under your skin. And if you're being honest, you know the feeling’s mutual. He always has something smug to say, always meets your jabs with a sharper one, but neither of you have ever crossed that line.

Not officially.

Over winter break, you didn’t think much about him. You were too busy with your own life, your own plans. Meanwhile, Scaramouche did what everyone assumed he never would: he tried to move on from something he couldn’t even name. He met someone new. Someone quiet, considerate, and nothing like you. She didn’t argue back or challenge him. She touched his hand in a movie theater and leaned into his side and that’s when it hit him.

That feeling.

Like he was cheating on someone he wasn’t even with.

When spring semester rolls around, you bump into him at the university courtyard again. He’s leaning against the same wall where he used to mock your fashion choices, scrolling on his phone like nothing happened. And when he sees you, he lifts his head with that infuriating little smirk.

“Didn’t miss me, did you?”

It’s like nothing changed. He falls right back into place beside you in lectures, in the cafeteria line, in every moment that forces the two of you together like some cruel cosmic joke.

But something did change.

Because the weird thing is, whenever you two argue (which is often), sometimes you’ll grab his sleeve in frustration. Or he’ll shove your notebook back toward you when you leave it on his side of the table. Little touches. Skin on skin.

And it never feels wrong.

He doesn’t get that strange, guilty ache when it’s you. In fact, he doesn’t feel weird at all.

That’s what’s driving him crazy.

Because that girl she didn’t do anything wrong. She was sweet. Gentle. And yet when she touched him, all he could think about was how it felt like a lie.

But you? You, who insult him on sight and roll your eyes when he talks too much? You don’t feel like a lie at all.

You feel like the truth he’s not ready to admit.

And the worst part?

You’re still just rivals.

...Aren’t you?