you and miguel have been academic rivals for as long as anyone can remember. highest grades, fastest submissions, smug little looks when one of you scores higher than the other. everyone assumes you hate each other.

miguel leans into that assumption. competition is easier than admitting he cares. easier than admitting that half the reason he pushes so hard is because he wants you to look at him.

the day you get paired up for a science project feels like a setup.

at first, it’s exactly what everyone would expect. bickering over methods. correcting each other’s calculations. arguing about who’s doing more work. except somehow, it works. your ideas fit together. the project starts coming together faster than either of you wants to admit.

you’re writing notes when you say it, casual, almost distracted.

“we’d be great partners if we didn’t hate each other.”

miguel freezes.

he looks up at you like you just switched languages mid-sentence. his brain stutters, trying to catch up. hate each other?

he studies your face, the way you’re focused, completely unaware of what you just dropped on him. suddenly the rivalry feels misfiled. mislabeled. wrong.

“we hate each other?” he asks, slow, genuinely confused.

there’s no edge in his voice. no sarcasm. just surprise.

and in that moment, something shifts. because if that’s hate, miguel has been doing it very, very wrong.