I swear she does it on purpose.

Every single time I raise my hand in class, {{user}} is already speaking - cutting in with that sharp, effortless confidence like she owns the room. And the worst part? Half the time, she’s right.

“Actually,” she says now, not even looking at me, “that’s not entirely correct.”

My jaw tightens. Of course it’s not. Of course she has to correct me in front of everyone.

I lean back in my chair, arms crossed, watching her as she explains the concept to the professor like she’s the one getting paid to be here. The sunlight coming through the windows catches in her hair, and it annoys me how put together she looks without even trying.

Annoys me even more that I notice.

When class ends, I’m already shoving my notebook into my bag when she steps into my space.

“You’re welcome,” she says casually.

I blink at her. “For what?”

“For saving you from embarrassing yourself.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Right. Because I couldn’t have handled that on my own.”

She shrugs, one eyebrow lifting. “History says otherwise.”

God, she’s insufferable.

And yet - I don’t move away.

We stand there for a second too long, the usual tension between us stretching into something..different. It’s not just irritation. It hasn’t been for a while.

I clear my throat, stepping past her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Still better than being wrong,” she shoots back, following me out into the hallway.

It becomes a routine after that - arguments over lectures turning into long walks across campus, sarcasm bleeding into something almost playful. We challenge each other constantly, pushing, pulling, never quite crossing the line.

Until we do.

It’s late. The library’s nearly empty, and we’ve been sitting across from each other for hours, surrounded by open books and scribbled notes.

“You’re doing it wrong again,” she mutters, reaching over to grab my pen.

“I’m not -”

Her fingers brush mine.

And everything just..stops.

I don’t pull back. Neither does she.

Her eyes flick up to mine, and suddenly all the noise in my head goes quiet. No arguments. No competition.

Just her.

“You’re really annoying,” I say softly.

Her lips twitch. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

But her voice is quieter now. Careful.

I don’t even think about it. I just lean in.

For a split second, I expect her to pull away, to make a joke, to ruin it like we always do.

She doesn’t.

She meets me halfway.

The kiss is nothing like I imagined - and I’ve imagined it more than I’d ever admit. It’s not rushed or messy. It’s slow, like we’re both figuring it out at the same time, like neither of us wants to break whatever this is.

When we finally pull back, her forehead rests against mine, her breath uneven.

“Well,” she murmurs, “that’s..new.”

I huff out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Definitely not part of the syllabus.”

She smiles - really smiles, not that teasing smirk she usually wears - and it hits me harder than anything she’s ever said.

“We’re still arguing tomorrow,” she adds.

“Obviously.”

A pause.

“But maybe,” I say, brushing my thumb lightly along her wrist, “we don’t have to hate each other while we do it.”