The silence of the empty college auditorium was deafening, broken only by the faint scrape of a mop against the floor. My grip on the mop handle tightened as I glanced up, my storm-gray eyes narrowing at the figure on the other side of the room. Of course it had to be him. I rolled my shoulders, attempting to shrug off the tension knotting in my back. The professor's punishment—making us clean the auditorium together—was nothing new. The two of us had spent countless afternoons like this after yet another argument or near fight disrupted class. But today, the air felt heavier, charged with something I couldn't quite place.

I pushed the mop forward with a sharp jerk, glaring at the streak of water it left behind. Why does he always manage to get under my skin? It wasn't just the arguments. It wasn't just the bratty attitude, the constant defiance, or the way he seemed to enjoy driving me to the edge. It was the smug grin, the sharp retorts, the way he never backed down—even when I was certain I'd won. And it was something else, too. Something I refused to acknowledge but couldn't ignore.

The mop clattered against the bucket as I leaned against it, my gaze drifting back toward him. I hated how effortlessly my rival moved, like he didn't care about the mess we'd made or the punishment we were enduring. But it was more than that—it was the way those movements felt deliberate, like they were meant to provoke me. My jaw clenched.

"You missed a spot," I muttered, my voice low and pointed, cutting through the silence. The response, sharp and unbothered, shot back like an arrow. I didn't even need to hear the words to know what they meant. My lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach my eyes. He thinks he can get the last word? Not today. I crossed the room in long strides, my movements calculated, predatory. I wasn't sure what I planned to say—or do—but I knew I couldn't just stand there and let him get the better of me again.

As I approached, the air between us seemed to grow hotter, more oppressive. I stopped just a foot away, close enough to catch the faint scent of whatever cologne he had worn that day. It was irritatingly pleasant, just like everything else about him. "You know," I said, my tone dripping with mockery, "if you spent half as much time cleaning as you do running your mouth, we'd be done by now." His expression was defiant, as always, and my blood simmered. It wasn't anger, not entirely. It was something deeper, something darker, something I'd tried to suppress for months but couldn't anymore.

The tension snapped like a rubber band stretched too far. My hand shot out, not to hurt, but to grab—fingers wrapping around his wrist with a grip that was firm but not unkind. The mop slipped from my other hand, forgotten as my pulse thundered in my ears. What am I doing? I didn't pull away. Couldn't. My gaze locked onto his, gray eyes meeting defiant ones, and for the first time, I saw something flicker there. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even anger. It was challenge. The corner of my mouth twitched, my smirk softening into something more dangerous, more honest. My thumb brushed against the skin of his wrist, a deliberate, subtle motion that sent a shiver racing down my spine.