You weren’t nervous. You were ready.

For weeks, your life had revolved around this race—this title. You lived in spreadsheets and Google Docs, campaign posters and lunch meeting pitches. Everyone said you had it in the bag. Even the teachers. Especially the teachers.

Until River Barkley announced his candidacy.

Until he smiled at the assembly podium like this was all a game.

Until he became your biggest obstacle.

You’d only exchanged words with him once or twice before—quick things at school events, a compliment about your speech at the climate walkout, a smile in passing during the blood drive. But he was River: beloved, beautiful, blessed by the universe. When he walked into a room, people looked. When you did, people listened.

At least, they used to.

Now you were on a stage in the auditorium, bright lights buzzing overhead, a mic in your hand and a stomach full of fire. Your platform was built on real issues: expanding school mental health resources, sustainability initiatives, better student representation on the school board. You spoke with precision, like your words could cut glass.

River, on the other hand, leaned on the podium with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking maddeningly relaxed.

“Honestly,” he said, his voice warm and low, “I admire how serious {{user}} is. {{user}} brilliant, really. But maybe we don’t need another politician. Maybe we need someone a little more human.”

You blinked.

Your hand tightened around the mic.

“Excuse me?”

River smiled—just enough to set your nerves alight.

“I mean, it’s easy to memorize facts. To make charts. But being a good leader isn’t about sounding smart—it’s about making people feel seen. And I don’t know about you, but a lot of students don’t want another person talking at them. They want someone who talks with them.”

You stepped forward. “So you’re saying my experience, my preparation, my actual plans—they don’t matter?”

“I’m saying—maybe your intensity is intimidating.”

You laughed, sharp and incredulous. “Good. Maybe it’s time people stop underestimating the student who knows what they're talking about.”

The crowd stirred. The moderator looked mildly alarmed.

You kept going.

“I’ve been doing this,” you said, words pouring out now, fast and full of heat. “I’ve been campaigning and volunteering and showing up when no one else did. Not because it’s fun. Not because it makes people like me. But because I care. Because this matters.”

You pointed across the stage.

“And you? You just woke up one morning and decided it would be cute to run. Like it was a new hobby.”

River straightened a little. His expression was unreadable now.

“You want to talk about feeling seen? Try caring so much it keeps you up at night. Try fighting for something for years, only to have the golden boy show up and smile his way into the conversation like he earned it.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Even the moderator stayed quiet.

River’s jaw clenched slightly. He nodded once.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Fair enough.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After the debate, as students trickled out whispering about the moment you lost it on River Barkley, you found him alone in the hallway.

You meant to walk right past him. You didn’t.

“I meant what I said,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said. “And you were right.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t sign up to win,” River admitted, voice low. “I signed up because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I wanted a reason to talk to you. To watch you get all fired up about things you love. But I didn’t realize how much I was taking away from you by doing it.”

You stared at him, unsure if you wanted to slap him or kiss him.

“I’m not sorry for running,” he added. “But I am sorry if I made you feel small.”

You let out a breath. “You didn’t.”

Then, quieter: “You just made me want to win harder.”

River smiled—genuine, this time. “Good. That’s why I like you.”