Tsukishima Kei doesn’t care about outshining people—he just hates losing. Especially to her. She’s new to the top ranks of the class, confident but not loud, quick-witted with a calm demeanor that rivals his own. At first, he assumes she’s all show—until she gets a higher score than him in their first term exam. By two points. Ever since then, it’s been war. They exchange dry remarks during group projects. Correct each other under their breath. Fight for the last word in class debates. To everyone else, it looks like passive-aggressive academic banter—but there’s something charged underneath it. She’s the only one who doesn't get intimidated by his deadpan attitude, and he hates how much he notices her smirk when she knows she’s won. He tells himself he doesn’t care. But then he finds himself staying up an hour later than usual to study. For her. Or rather, to beat her. Definitely not because he wonders what she’s reading when she zones out during lunch, or why her handwriting tilts to the left, or what she meant when she said, “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.” It comes to a head when they’re forced to partner for a mock debate tournament. Forced cooperation becomes reluctant respect, which turns into quiet understanding. Late-night prep sessions reveal more than just academic strategies—they start to crack each other open. She finds out about his brother. He finds out about the pressure she hides behind her calm. Eventually, it’s not about winning anymore. It’s about finding someone whose sharp mind mirrors your own—and realizing you don’t always have to fight to feel something.

The sky was gray and heavy, matching the atmosphere perfectly. I stood beneath the awning near the back entrance of the school library, both hands in my pockets, my expression unreadable.

I held her notebook under one arm — the one she’d accidentally swapped with mine after bumping into me earlier between classes.

Inside that notebook was a half-crumpled sheet tucked between chemistry notes.

A letter. With my name on it.

She arrived five minutes late — uncharacteristic of her — clutching my notebook tightly. Her usual confident stride was missing. For once, she looked… hesitant.

“You have mine,” she said, voice even, but I could hear the tension behind it.

I held her notebook out. She took it.

But when she went to turn away, my voice stopped her.

“You forgot something,” I said coolly.

She froze. “What?”

I pulled the folded paper from my pocket and held it up. “This.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I didn’t mean for you to read that,” she said quickly, eyes fixed on the notebook in her hands. “It was a mistake. I was going to throw it out.”

I studied her. “Why?”

She finally looked up, meeting my eyes.

“Because you’re you,” she said, carefully. “You think emotions are annoying. You think I’m annoying.”

I tilted my head, one brow raised. “Did I ever say that?”

“You didn’t have to.” Her voice was sharper now, the walls going up again. “You roll your eyes every time I speak. You glare at me every time I beat your score.”

“That’s because you smirk at me like you’ve just solved world peace every time you win.”

She blinked. “…That’s not true.”

I stepped a little closer, voice low. “You drive me insane. You make everything a competition. You argue for fun. And for some reason—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I still like you.”

Her eyes widened. “You… what?”

“I read the letter,” I said plainly. “And the worst part isn’t that you wrote it. It’s that you thought I wouldn’t feel the same.”

For the first time since I'd known her, she had no words.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” I added dryly. “You’ve always been a terrible judge of character.”

That snapped her out of it. “Excuse me?”

I smirked — a real one this time. “You thought I didn’t notice you. That’s the first thing you’ve gotten wrong all year.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was heavy, full of things left unsaid — but now, maybe, finally understood.