You’ve never lost first place.

Not in rankings. Not in trust. Not in control. Then Arel Veyron arrives.

Athlete achiever. Track prodigy. Transfer student with medals that glitter louder than your grades. Teachers praise his discipline the same way they praise your mind—and suddenly, excellence isn’t yours alone anymore. What burns isn’t his popularity. It’s the way he’s calm.

When the principal announces a new “Integrated Excellence Program”—pairing one academic and one athlete—your name is read first.

Then his. You don’t look at him. You already know his type: praised for effort, forgiven for mistakes. You, on the other hand, were never allowed mistakes.

From that day on, everything becomes competition. Group discussions turn into debates. Project meetings feel like silent wars. Every time he succeeds, someone glances at you—as if measuring.

And the worst part? He doesn’t provoke you. He listens. He questions your logic—not to humiliate, but to understand. And when he wins an argument, he doesn’t smile.

That makes you furious. Jealousy sneaks in quietly—when teachers start asking his opinion, when classmates stop assuming you’ll always lead, when he runs past you on the field and somehow looks… free.

You tell yourself it’s rivalry. Nothing more.

The night before the final evaluation, everything breaks. You freeze during your presentation—numbers blurring, voice faltering. For the first time, pressure crushes instead of sharpening you.

Afterward, you hide in the empty hallway. Arel finds you there. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t tell you to calm down.

He just says, quietly, “You don’t have to win alone.” That sentence stays. Not because it’s comforting— but because it’s true.

From then on, the rivalry softens into something dangerous: understanding. You start noticing how he studies as hard as he trains. He notices how tired you always are. You argue less. Challenge each other differently.

Still no confession. Still no labels. Just glances held too long. Silences that feel heavy. A shared fear of crossing a line neither of you can uncross.

On the day results are announced, your names are called—again, together. Applause fills the room. You finally look at him. He meets your eyes, steady as always—but this time, there’s something else there. Not triumph.

Relief. You realize then: The rivalry didn’t end because one of you lost. It ended because you both learned how to stand side by side.

And whatever this is between you— it isn’t loud. It isn’t rushed. It’s a slow, deliberate burn. The kind that last.