CHAPTER 4

I couldn't do anything. I was just leaning back on the chair in the research lab, staring at my laptop screen filled with multiple tabs of research papers I could barely read anymore because of how exhausted I was. Sanjo and I had been researching for three weeks now. Three weeks of forced proximity, awkward silences, and all sorts of weird moments I couldn't explain to myself.

"That's not going to work," Sanjo's voice cut through the silence as he pointed at the paragraph I had just typed in our shared document.

I sighed. "And why not?"

"Because it contradicts what you wrote in the previous section," he answered, rolling his chair closer to me. "Here, you said algorithmic decision-making is harmful to marginalized communities. But here, you mentioned it's a potential equalizer."

"They're not mutually exclusive ideas," I defended. "Something can have both harmful effects and equalizing potential. Nuance, Alcaraz. Ever heard of it?"

He rolled his eyes but didn't get angry. Instead, I saw that familiar spark in his eyes—the subtle excitement whenever there was an intellectual challenge. "Fine. But we need to make the connection clearer. Otherwise, readers will be confused."

"Readers? Or just you?" I teased, but I still followed his suggestion and fixed the transition between the two paragraphs.

This had become our pattern over the past few weeks. Working with him wasn't as painful anymore. In fact, though I didn't want to admit it, we were effective together. Complementary, just as Prof. Rivas predicted. Where I was detail-oriented, he saw the big picture. Where he was theoretical, my approach was practical.

The only problem was, the more compatible we were academically, the more intense my physical awareness of him became. It was like I had a built-in radar for Santiago Alcaraz—I knew when he was entering the room even if I didn't see him, I could feel when he was getting closer, and I could smell the subtle scent of his cologne even when he was on the other side of the table.

And it was driving me insane.

"It's almost midnight," Sanjo said, checking his watch. "Do you want to go home?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. We have a deadline tomorrow for the first draft. We need to finish this."

He shrugged and went back to work. But I noticed something—the way his shoulders tensed, the slight furrow between his brows. He was tired too.

"You," I said, "go home if you want. I can finish this."

He raised an eyebrow. "And let you take all the credit? No thanks."

"That's not what I meant—"

"I know," he cut me off, smiling—small but genuine. "I was kidding. I'm not leaving you here."

Something tugged at my chest. I felt confused. Three weeks of seeing a different side of Sanjo—considerate, thoughtful. He seemed like an actual person now, not just an academic rival I needed to beat.

"Well, I have coffee," I offered, rummaging through my bag. "And some chocolates Cassie gave me. Let's share."

"Sure," he nodded. "Thanks."

We worked in silence for another hour, the only sounds being the keyboard clicks and occasional sighs when we got tired. I noticed the subtle shift in our dynamics—from hostile silence at first, it had become comfortable over time.

Was this what it felt like to get along with a former rival? Was this what making peace looked like?

"Remember sophomore year," Sanjo suddenly said, breaking the silence, a small smile on his lips. "That debate in Professor Aguilar's Pol Sci class?"

"Which one?" I asked, even though I knew exactly which debate he was talking about. It was one of our most memorable clashes—a three-hour heated discussion about Habermas vs. Rawls that went on so long some classmates almost walked out.

"The one where you called my interpretation of democracy, and I quote, 'so shallow it could fit in a teaspoon,'" he answered, almost laughing. "I spent the next week in the library researching just to prove you wrong."

I couldn't help but laugh. "And then you came back with that fifteen-page rebuttal that wasn't even required."

"It was worth it just to see your face," he looked at me, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "You looked like you wanted to strangle me and kiss me at the same time."

My heart suddenly stopped. Kiss?

He froze too, realizing what he had said. The atmosphere between us turned awkward.

"You know what I mean," he quickly added. "Like, metaphorically. Strangle slash admire."

"Right," I said, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Admire is definitely the word I'd use."

He laughed, but it was different this time. There was a hint of nervousness. "Come on, Salvacion. After all these years, you still can't admit there were moments you were impressed by me?"

I studied him for a moment. The guy who had been competing with me since first year. The guy who pushed me beyond my limits. The guy who now—in the middle of the night, in an empty research lab, under dim lighting—looked more handsome than he should.

"Fine," I didn't know why I was admitting this. "There were moments. Rare, occasional moments. Sometimes."

His gaze softened. "Same."

That one word hung between us. Same. He had admitted to being impressed by me too. I didn't know why it felt like such a big deal.

We went back to work, but there was something different in the air. A new awareness. A tension that wasn't about academic rivalry. Something else.

"That's why," I said after a while, desperately trying to get us back to safe territory. "If we hadn't accidentally been flagged for academic misconduct, maybe we'd still be competing."

"Hmm," he replied, staring at the monitor. "Would that have been better? Continuing as rivals forever?"

Something in his tone made me look at him. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just... thinking out loud."

I noticed he kept rereading the same passage, as if he couldn't focus.

"Actually," he started again, finally looking up at me. "Don't you ever wonder what might have happened if we hadn't met as competitors?"

"What, like friends?" I asked, half-laughing at the absurdity.

"Or something else," he said softly.

My breath caught. Something else. What did he mean by something else?

But he wasn't looking at me, so I couldn't read his expression.

My heart started beating faster. "Like what, exactly?" I asked, trying to sound casual but feeling like he could hear how fast my heartbeat was.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe collaborators from the start. Or maybe..."

I waited for him to continue. When he didn't, I felt a recklessness take over.

"Maybe what, Alcaraz?" I challenged. "Say it. At this point, we're stuck together for another month. There's no point in hiding it."

Finally, he looked at me. There was something in his eyes I couldn't quite read. Heat? Curiosity? Frustration?

"You really want to know?" he asked, his voice dropping lower.

"I asked, didn't I?"

He swiveled his chair to fully face me. "Fine. I sometimes wonder if this tension between us—" he gestured between us, "—is really just about grades and academic standing."

It felt like a knot tightened in my stomach. "What else would it be about?"

His eyes darkened slightly. "Come on, Salvacion. You're not naive. Sometimes when two people constantly seek each other out, constantly try to get a reaction from each other, constantly think about each other..."

"I don't constantly think about you," I replied defensively, but I knew it was a lie.

"Really?" he challenged, leaning slightly closer. "So you don't think about me when we argue in class? You don't think about my potential counter-arguments to your research? You don't look for me in the cafeteria when you walk in?"

My face turned red. "That's different. That's just... awareness of competition."

"Is it?" he asked, his voice soft. Too soft. "Because there's a theory that sometimes, this kind of hyper-fixation on someone... might mean something else."

His implication hung in the air between us. I knew what he was referring to. I could see it in the way he was looking at me. And the scary part—I didn't immediately reject it.

Instead, I felt curious.

"That's ridiculous," I said, but there was no conviction in my voice. "We hate each other."

"Do we?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or do we just tell ourselves that because it's easier than admitting the alternative?"

"What alternative?"

"That maybe," he leaned in a little, "our obsession with each other isn't entirely academic."

I stopped breathing. "Are you saying—"

"I'm saying," he cut me off, "that maybe we're hiding behind this rivalry to avoid facing something else."

I couldn't respond. Whatever was happening between us now—I hadn't anticipated it. Four years of fighting, competing, antagonizing each other. How did we end up here?

"You're overthinking this," I finally replied, but I could feel my neck heating up. "Just because we don't actively despise each other anymore doesn't mean—"

"Fine," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right," I said, feeling both relieved and frustrated at the same time.

I stood up, suddenly restless. I felt the need to get away, even if just for a moment. "I need more coffee. There's a vending machine in the hallway."

"I'll go with you," he offered. "I need a break too."

I nodded but quickly walked toward the door. I needed fresh air. I needed to clear my head from whatever tension was lingering in that room.

In the hallway, we walked in silence. The hallway was dim, illuminated only by emergency lights. It was late, past midnight, and the building was deserted. I could feel Sanjo's presence beside me, too close but I couldn't bring myself to move away.

"You're annoying," I suddenly blurted out as I waited for the coffee to drop from the vending machine. "We've been doing this for four years. Four years of competition, of academic rivalry. And then you just go and mess it all up?"

He was startled by my sudden outburst. "I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you did," I cut him off. "You know exactly what you're doing. You're saying that to distract me. So I can't focus."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly offended. "That's what you think? That this is some strategy to win?"

"Isn't it?" I challenged, feeling the frustration building. "I've been your rival for a long time, Alcaraz. I know how you think."

He shook his head, his expression darkening. "You don't know anything about me, Salvacion."

"I know enough," I replied, my voice rising slightly. "I know that you'll do anything to beat me. I know that you—"

I didn't get to finish because Sanjo suddenly pulled me. I didn't know what happened. I didn't know who moved first. But suddenly, his lips were on mine.

The world stopped. There was no other sound but the rapid beating of my heart. No other feeling but the heat of his lips, the grip of his hands on my arms.

And the scariest part—I didn't resist. Instead, I felt myself responding to the kiss, my hands reaching up to grab his collar, pulling him closer.

It was anger and frustration and four years of tension exploding in one moment. It was messy and desperate and nothing like I imagined kissing would be. It was hunger and need and release.

His lips were firm yet yielding, a contradiction that mirrored everything about him. The way he held me was both possessive and tender, as if he couldn't decide whether to claim me or cherish me. My fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to erase the distance that had always been between us.

The kiss deepened, fueled by years of unspoken words and suppressed emotions. It was as if every argument, every heated debate, every lingering glance had been leading to this moment. His hands slid down to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

There was a desperation in the way we clung to each other, as if we were both trying to prove something—to ourselves, to each other. His lips moved against mine with a fervor that left me breathless, and I responded in kind, my nails digging into his shoulders as if to anchor myself in the storm of emotions threatening to sweep me away.

For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us, the dimly lit hallway fading into the background. The taste of him was intoxicating, a mix of coffee and something uniquely Sanjo, and I found myself craving more, wanting to drown in the sensation.

But then, reality came crashing back. We pulled away from each other, both breathless, both shocked at what had just happened.

"Oh my god," I whispered, my eyes wide.

"Ellie," he started, using my first name for the first time in years. "I didn't—"

"Don't," I cut him off, my hand covering my mouth. "That was—this was—"

"A mistake," he said, finishing my sentence.

I didn't know why my chest hurt when I heard that word. *Mistake.* Of course. What else could it be?

"Yes," I nodded, desperately trying to regain my composure. "A moment of... weakness. Exhaustion."

"Right," he nodded too, but he was still looking at my lips. "Just stress relief."

"Exactly," I said, but I could feel my entire body heating up. "Nothing more."

"We should forget this happened," he said, his voice strained.

"Definitely," I quickly replied, but I couldn't catch my breath. "We need to finish the paper."

"Yeah," he nodded again. "The paper."

We went back to the lab, silent. But the silence now was loaded with something completely different. This wasn't the comfortable silence from earlier. The tension now was like electricity—dangerous, volatile, and ready to explode at any moment.

I sat down at my desk, desperately trying to focus on the screen. But my mind was elsewhere. My mind was in the hallway, on his lips, on his hands.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at me. He wanted to say something, I could tell.

"Salvacion," he started.

"Focus on the paper, Alcaraz," I quickly cut him off, not giving him a chance to continue.