the school is the kind with stone buildings and ivy that’s older than most countries. private dorms. brass nameplates on doors. students either terrifyingly rich or terrifyingly brilliant — sometimes both.

you’re both both.

that night, studying together becomes strategic. practical. necessary.

his dorm smells faintly of expensive cologne and printer resin — he’s been experimenting with a 3D printer for engineering, designing little security experiments for fun. sleeves rolled up. notes spread everywhere. hours pass. the hostility thins into something tighter, more charged. competition shifts into collaboration, and collaboration into something harder to define.

curfew separates you.

later, there’s a soft knock at your door.

he waits only a second before the lock clicks — a thin 3D-printed key card he once made “as a proof of concept” sliding home. he steps inside, jacket half-buttoned, composure slightly fractured for the first time. not smirking. Not taunting. Just deliberate.

he tells himself this is inefficient. academically irresponsible. strategically foolish.

he doesn’t leave.

the rivalry doesn’t end. it evolves. mornings are still rankings and sharpened glances across assembly halls. nights are quieter — textbooks pushed aside, tension distilled into something warmer, something neither of you would ever admit out loud.

he is still competitive. still controlled. still determined to graduate first in the class.

he just no longer studies alone.