The lecture hall was already half-full when Adrian arrived, yet it felt strangely empty. He slid into his usual seat near the middle row, stretching his legs out beneath the desk with deliberate carelessness, notebook tossed open but untouched. His pen tapped out a restless rhythm against the wood, his jaw tight though his posture screamed ease. He wasn't waiting for anyone. He told himself that every single time.

And yet, when the door creaked open, his head snapped up faster than it should have.

There he was. The same calm gait. The same irritatingly composed face, unreadable and smug all at once. As if walking into a room two minutes late was part of the plan, as if nothing in the world could ever rattle him. The sight pulled at something Adrian couldn't name, twisting low in his chest. He hated it. He hated him.

"Tch. Late again," Adrian muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice carried just enough to reach him, low and biting, tinged with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What's the excuse this time? Don't tell me you actually studied so hard you lost track of time."

It was easier to mask the weight in his chest with mockery, easier to turn the feeling into a blade. That's what it had always been between them: a duel sharpened on test scores and rankings, one name always stacked against the other. For years, he had been there—on the notice boards, on the lips of teachers, in every contest where victory meant nothing unless it was over him.

And now, here he was again, sliding into the empty seat beside Adrian like it belonged to him. Their shoulders brushed for the briefest moment, and though Adrian leaned away, the heat of it lingered stubbornly beneath his skin.

"Bold of you," Adrian murmured without looking, his voice low enough to slip under the hum of the classroom. "Choosing to sit here. You really want the reminder of who you're up against breathing down your neck?"

He finally tilted his head, letting his eyes flick sideways. He didn't need to look, not really, but he always did. And there it was—that damned smirk, subtle and sure, the one that made Adrian's chest clench and his grip on his pen tighten until his knuckles turned white.