The Rival

Chapter Five

On the bingo card of “things I thought I’d get up to in college on a Wednesday night,” lugging a semistolen communal microwave from my dorm to a random lecture hall was not on the list. But when I arrived half an hour early for the Dorm Food-Off—journalistic responsibility and all that—the Foodie Club was in the midst of planning a heist to get enough microwaves for the competitors from the teachers’ lounge. Seeing as my dorm is next door and I can get inside without committing a low-grade crime, I volunteered to grab ours.

“I wash my hands of this,” says Christina, watching me try and fail to find a logical way to hold it. “When you get murdered tonight by someone who had to eat a raw Hot Pocket because of you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“There’s another microwave downstairs,” I protest.

“Good. Because the Raw Hot Pocket Murder was, in fact, going to be perpetrated by me.”

“That would have made for a fun Wikipedia page,” I lament. “And also at least I would have gotten to hang out with you for however long it took you to watch the light die in my eyes. I haven’t seen you all week.”

Between Christina’s regular practices, conditioning, and the races she has to travel for, I knew she wasn’t going to be a fixture in the dorms. But this might actually be the longest conversation we’ve had since our tipsy villain arcs over the weekend.

Christina sighs. “Yeah, tell me about it. Also you should know, someone finished all the granola bars under your bed.”

“They didn’t quite,” I say cheekily. “There are more in the inside pocket of your duffel.”

She leans in and grabs my head ungently to plant a kiss on my temple. “Beautiful angel human,” she says.

I am decidedly less of one a minute later, when I am making a full spectacle of myself lurching across campus with an armful of microwave. I’m unsurprised when someone swoops in to grab the other side of it to help me, and already opening my mouth to profusely thank them when I realize the person is, in fact, Seb.

“I’m good,” I tell him.

The microwave decides it isn’t, though, because when I pull back from Seb it starts to slide off my hip. Seb raises his eyebrows at me, hands still poised under it.

“You look good,” he says.

There’s a delirious split second when I think he’s complimenting my looks and not responding to my lie. It trips me up just enough that I don’t have a comeback. At least, not one I can conjure before the microwave lurches again, and Seb deftly reaches in at the last second to catch it.

“Where, may I ask, is your new friend here headed?” he asks, amused.

I begrudgingly shift to let him take more of the weight. “The Dorm Food-Off. I figured it would make a good jumping-off point for my piece.”

“Ah,” says Seb, pressing his lips into a wry smile.

I nearly drop the microwave in exasperation, because I know that face. We can only be headed in the same direction, with the intention of covering the precise same event.

“Really?” I demand. “You realize this is like, a fun thing. Not fodder for one of your hard-hitting investigative pieces on the leaky ceiling in the art room or the rising cost of student parking.”

Seb shrugs. “Couldn’t help myself. We’re all so desperate for non–dining hall food that we’d eat off the sidewalk. I swear tonight’s ‘French fries’ crunched like apples.”

I shudder. “At least you didn’t try the spinach-lasagna situation. It made me miss that moldy jelly bean.”

“You know, if you’re still feeling squeamish, maybe you’re the one who should sit this one out,” says Seb in mock sympathy.

I nudge more of the weight of the microwave toward him. “You’re the one who’s going to be squeamish when I crush you in the first challenge,” I say. And then add brightly, per our agreement, “You know. In a friendly way.”

Seb lets out a biting laugh. “Yeah. I’m feeling the love.”

When we arrive at the lecture hall we set the microwave down on the long table full of other questionably obtained appliances. The space is packed with clusters of students now, each of them made distinct with different colors of construction paper taped somewhere on their person declaring the student organization they’re representing, their name, and their pronouns. Someone from the Rainbow Maple Ride Alliance in an oversized computer-science hoodie waves at Seb in recognition, and he waves back. Someone from the Jelly Bean Appreciation Society waves at me, and I step behind Seb like a human shield.

“It’s like the lunch tables from Mean Girls, except nobody’s crying,” I say.

“Well, the night is young,” says Seb. “And the Knitting Club does look pretty menacing over there.”

I rib him with my elbow. “If you’re scared, it’s not too late for you to hightail it out of here, copycat.”

Seb’s eyes gleam. “And miss seeing Jerry in her element? Where would be the fun in that?”

I’m not sure what I was expecting from a Dorm Food-Off, but it certainly wasn’t this—a turnout not just from the Foodie Club but at least a dozen others on campus. Amara and Rowan weren’t exaggerating when they said the student-run organizations stuck together. Even the previously subdued Sad Bitch Book Club looks ready to fuck up a microwave in their matching aprons.

The student from the Rainbow Maple Ride Alliance who waved at Seb walks over, with the name ANGIE on her team sign.

“You should have told us you were coming!” she scolds him, swatting at his shoulder. “The team limit is five, but we could have split into two.”

The RMRA must have already had their first meeting then—Seb was a pretty active member in our high school’s version of it, too. When he came out as bisexual in freshman year he was one of the few boys in our school who was out at all, but he never took any leadership roles in the club, instead helping organize events and do outreach with other schools. His parents were so eager to help that they still have an entire shelf in the basement with disposable rainbow cups and plates for parties that we’ll all probably be eating off when we celebrate retirement.

Seb waves Angie off, then says in a put-on academic voice, “We’re just here to observe.”

“Well, that’s a shame. We could’ve used you.”

We both startle at the sudden appearance of Amara, who is also taped up with blue construction paper on her shirt declaring a Newsbag team. Just a few feet beyond her are Rowan and Joey, who appear to be in a deep philosophical conversation until I hear the words “We did that last year—we can’t just keep putting Oreos in it every time” and Rowan’s heated reply of “ Watch me.”

“We’re not technically part of Newsbag, though,” says Seb.

Amara waves us off. “It’s like we said in the interest meeting—everyone’s welcome.” She jerks her thumb back at Rowan and Joey. “So do you care to join forces?”

I take a breath for a “thanks, but no thanks,” because I know myself too well. I’ve been neck and neck with Seb for so long that I have this inconvenient, if not effective, reflex: drop me into any kind of time-based competition, and I will go from reasonable human to soul-eating machine in ten seconds flat. If I’m going to write about something tonight, I can’t afford the distraction.

Then Rowan steps between us, brow furrowed as they hand Amara their phone. Amara peers at the screen, scowls, and says, “Those absolute chucklefucks.”

“What’s wrong?” Joey asks, and then lights up in surprise at the sight of me and Seb. “Oh, hey!”

“They messed with our funding again.” Rowan looks to me and Seb to explain. “We have to pay the printers for the physical copies of the zine using a card the school assigned us, and the guy who does our printing says it’s been declined.”

Amara’s nostrils flare. “The zine’s funding is a drop in the bucket compared to the school’s bajillion-dollar sports budget, but that’s just it. They don’t care about anything that isn’t making money for them. They probably forgot our paperwork again.”

Rowan glances at the time on their phone. “The office is open another half hour. We can make it over if we book it.”

“Way ahead of you,” says Amara, whose tote bag is already secured across her shoulder. “If we run fast enough maybe they’ll mistake us for jocks and actually give us our damn funding.”

Rowan plants a hand on my shoulder and the other on Seb’s. “All right, then. We’re tapping you kids in. Make Newsbag proud.”

They give us both a squeeze before they let us go, then follow Amara out the door, leaving me, Seb, and a newly abandoned Joey in their wake.

“Um,” says Joey, taking a step as if to chase after them. Seb takes a step forward like he might, too, and I realize that if there is a Seb-friendly story topic here, it might have just walked out the door. If I play my cards right, maybe I can convince Seb to write about the funding issue and reclaim the Dorm Food-Off for myself.

My scheming hopes are dashed by someone on a loudspeaker calling the room to order. Both Joey and Seb turn to attention as the president of the Foodie Club welcomes us all, reminding us that this event is semisponsored by Pickle Princess, a pickle stand that’s open in the farmers market downtown on Saturdays, and that the prize is a giant jar of sour pickles and a crown.

“A refresher on how this works. In a few minutes, as a group we will walk—calmly! in an orderly fashion!—to the 7-Eleven on Main Street,” the Foodie Club president explains. “You will then have approximately two minutes to gather your ingredients and get in line. Your ingredients cannot exceed ten dollars. After that we will meet back here, where you are allowed to use one microwave-safe dish to bring your creation to life in five minutes or less.”

Unfortunately, somewhere in the last thirty seconds I got emotionally invested against my will, and if I don’t walk out with a jar of pickles in my hand and a crown on one of these boys’ heads I will simply not be able to live with myself. I turn to Seb only to see the same irrational fire starting to spark in his eyes.

“This year’s panel of judges include members of past winning teams—please give a warm welcome to Jenny of the Ultimate Frisbee Club and Aman from the Starbucks and Target Club. We’ll head for 7-Eleven now—if you have any questions, Foodie Club members are in orange. Some of them might also be easily bribed with aged cheeses, but you didn’t hear that from me. Onward and out!”

We all start filing out of the lecture hall when Joey hands me a sheet of paper. “They were handing these out earlier,” he says. “It’s the scoring system.”

I feel the warmth of Seb’s cheek hovering close to mine before I hear his voice in my ear, reading it out loud. “So we’re getting scored on originality, taste, and… drunkability.”

I squint down at the asterisk on that last one, because underneath is a italicized clarification: Drunkability: a loose term to encapsulate the ease with which a drunk person, or drunk-adjacent person (i.e., neurons compromised by studying, crying about studying, or watching TikToks about unlikely animal friendships) might be able to create the dish, and whether it would be enjoyable to said drunk or drunk-adjacent individual.

“Okay, the bad news is that Amara accidentally walked out the door with a bag full of our microwave-safe dishware options,” says Joey. “But the good news is we’re passing my dorm on the way to Main Street, so I’ll run up and grab a mug. We just have to decide really, really fast what we’re putting in it.”

“Something sweet,” I say. “Like a mug cookie or a mug cake.”

Seb is shaking his head before I even finish my sentence. “We have to go savory on this one. Trust me.”

I feel a not-unfamiliar twinge of irritation, but keep my expression even. “Trust you ?” I laugh. “Seb, your mom’s a chef. Your idea of dorm food probably has truffle aioli on the side.”

Seb’s cheeks pinken. “And I once saw you light a microwave on fire trying to make nachos, if we’re keeping score,” he says. “And speaking of scores—mug cakes are about as boring as it gets.”

I feel the heat rising in my own cheeks. “Well, I know for a fact Jenny was lingering by the Cookie Monster Club table the day of the fair, so we’d have at least one judge in our corner.”

“How can you be that sure it was the same person?” Seb asks, shaking his head. “You were talking to Joey the whole time.”

Joey clears his throat behind us, and we both startle. The embarrassment is so immediate that I drop any attempt at politeness.

“You were probably just too busy talking about yourself to notice,” I snap right back.

Joey stops on the sidewalk then, pointing hesitantly toward his dorm before he splits off. Shit. My face isn’t just burning now but searing.

“Um—are you two good?” Joey asks.

Cue the School Mode smile, or at the very least a fun house–mirror version of it.

“Fine,” we both say, way too brightly, through our teeth.

Because we may have miscalculated this whole mutual-unhatred thing. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and apparently the magical friendship bridge between Seb and Sadie can’t be either. Joey gives us an awkward wave before dashing off, leaving us to walk toward 7-Eleven as the only group that might have just made negative progress on coming up with a plan.

“Sorry,” we both mutter at the same time.

“No, I’m sorry,” I insist, just as Seb says over me, “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

We have no choice but to laugh at each other then, so sharp and full-body that we’ve shaken off the tension in the next few steps.

“Well, shit,” I say candidly. “Turns out we might be worse at working with each other than against.”

Seb shakes his head. “I think we’re just both—maybe—a smidge competitive.”

“Smidge and a half,” I agree.

Seb’s voice is lighter when he talks again, his expression open—less like he’s telling me what we should do and more like he’s asking. “Well, here’s what I’m thinking. Aman is a TA in one of my classes and basically lives off Cheez-Its, so that might be a savory vote in our corner. But I might be leaning toward savory only because we have pretty limited ‘drunkability’ experience, and I’ve just gone for nachos every time.”

I pat Seb on the back consolingly. “That’s only because you’ve never had one of Christina’s fluffernutter Oreo stacks at two in the morning. But we can fix that later.”

Seb’s eyebrows quirk in interest. “Maybe there’s some way we can do… both?”

“Savory and sweet, you mean?” I clarify. “I don’t know. Sounds perilous. Has anyone ever attempted such a feat?”

“We’ll be pioneers,” he jokes. “The first two humans to ever combine salt and sugar.”

I consider our options. “We need a good base, then. Something hearty. A reliable canvas.”

We pass the alley that leads to Betty’s then, and the moment is kismet. We turn to each other, eyes so bright and intent that we already know we’re about to say the same thing when we blurt, “Mug pancake.”

“Yes,” I say. “Something that’s sweet, but we can add some oomph to.”

“A cheesy mug pancake!” Seb exclaims.

I grab him by the arm to keep him out of the middle of the Dorm Food-Off pack. “Yes. Yes. But keep it down, genius,” I tell him.

Seb leans into me with a broad grin, using my momentum to grab me by the shoulders and lean in close. His eyes are a warmer brown cast in the evening light, his skin near glowing. My breath catches in my throat, and without my permission, my brain starts another one of its ridiculous commercials. One where Seb uses the crackling energy I can feel between us, where his firm hands meet my shoulders, where his thumb is digging slightly and almost possessively into my collarbone, and pulls me in to kiss him.

“Too bad neither of us likes pickles,” he says, “because we’re about to be swimming in them.”

I laugh and we break apart, but the commercial doesn’t quite go to black. I’m still humming all over—the skin his fingers touched, the lips he didn’t kiss.

Jesus. If I get this revved up at the idea of a boy shoving a mug of cheese into a microwave then I needed to get my first kiss over with yesterday.

Thankfully the carnage of the timed two-minute 7-Eleven run snaps me right out of it. It’s slow-motion war movie “directed by Steven Spielberg” levels of orchestrated chaos. The Sad Bitch Book Club dives for the individually wrapped Reese’s like they’re tickets to the last spaceships off a meteor-stricken Earth. The Trivia Club nearly knocks out half of the admittedly frail Bird Watching Society reaching for mini tortillas. Someone from the Knitting Club flashes me a look in the dairy aisle that legitimately makes me fear for my life.

We make it through the store relatively unscathed, Seb picking up a small bag of instant pancake mix, me grabbing a bag of shredded cheese. We’re still under budget. There’s a small shaker of rainbow sprinkles in the baking aisle. I pick it up, tilting an eyebrow at Seb.

His face bursts into a grin entirely incongruous with someone in the next aisle shouting, “Your children’s children will feel the Kickball Club’s wrath!” He nods and we get in line with seconds to spare before the timer buzzes, wedged between the Cookie Monster Club and the Paranormal Investigation Club.

“We’re in agreement not to speak a word of this to Betty on Sunday?” says Seb. “She hates us enough already without knowing we’re making a mockery of her art form.”

I nudge my shoulder into Seb’s. “Who says I’ll be at Betty’s on Sunday?”

Seb hums, then instead of answering reaches for the hand I’ve got gripped around my wallet. For a ridiculous moment I think he’s going to hold my hand, but instead his fingers skim the jelly-bean key chain I attached to the edge of my wallet with my keys.

“I use it to ward off evil spirits,” I explain.

“Ah,” says Seb, for some reason looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Is it working?”

I press a finger to his chest. “Not well enough, if you’re still here.”

He takes a step toward me, and then it isn’t my finger pressed to his chest but my open palm. He is warm and solid under my touch, and the feeling of his heart against my hand is so disarming that I don’t move.

Seb raises his eyebrows, his words low and deliberate. “You think you’d be used to that by now.”

I draw my hand back, swallowing hard. A moment later Joey comes running up the sidewalk with his Spider-Man mug, which reads WITH GREAT COFFEE COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY . I duck my head to hide my inexplicably warm cheeks while Seb and Joey launch into a heated discussion over which of the three movie Spider-Men is hotter, which thankfully comes to the peaceful conclusion of “all of them, in their own separate ways” by the time we reach the lecture hall and are assigned our microwave.

Mere moments later, the Foodie Club president announces that the five-minute timer is about to begin with a loud “On your marks… get set… go !”

The room instantly erupts in a clamor of mixing spoons and clanging bowls and commotion. Seb rips open the pancake mix as Joey measures out the water and I peer at the instructions to try and guesstimate a cook time.

“Let’s try a minute,” I decide.

Seb nods as he starts mixing, and we both duck our heads in mutual concentration so intense that we look less like we’re bastardizing breakfast food and more like we’re trying to defuse a bomb.

Joey, on the other hand, is cheerfully immune to the pandemonium. “I meant to ask—did you swing past Betty’s?”

“Oh, I did!” The shredded cheese bag is not cooperating, so I rip it open with my teeth. Joey blinks in mild alarm. “Best food I’ve had since I got here. I should hit you up for more recs.”

“Well, if you’re a sweets person you have to try the strawberry-lemonade pie at the farmers market. Maybe we could go this weekend?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say quickly, both because what kind of monster says no to pie, and also because the faster I answer the more I can focus my attention on the task at hand.

Which is proving necessary, because Seb is frozen with his finger above the number keypad of the microwave.

I snap in his face. “Seb! Start button! Go!”

He startles. “Right,” he says, tapping the microwave on. We watch our little Spider-Man spin through the door until the pancake looks semicooked, pull it out and top it with cheese, and stick it back in for another twenty seconds.

When we pull our fluffy, cheesed-up glob of pancake out, Seb hands me the sprinkles shaker.

“All you,” he says. Despite the pressure of the situation, his hand lingers for a moment when my fingers graze his to take it. I look up to meet his eyes, but he’s already focused on whatever the Trivia Club is yelling about a few feet away.

“Huh,” says Joey, as I tip the shaker into our concoction. “I can’t decide whether to be alarmed or impressed.”

The buzzer goes off and everyone steps away from their microwaves then, leaving us to watch the official scorings as the judges go down the line. The Sad Bitch Book Club has come in hot with a remixed s’mores that swaps giant potato chips for graham crackers and Reese’s for chocolate. The Ultimate Frisbee Club flew too close to the sun and attempted a Rice Krispies treat knockoff that looks like it might have been actively on fire at one point. The Bird Watching Society filled tortillas with Nutella and bananas—a decent choice, but too safe.

It’s all well and good until we’ve reached the Knitting Club, who somehow got their act together to create a spicy mac and cheese with a crushed Cinnamon Toast Crunch crust on it.

“Oh,” I say, watching Jenny take a whiff and then put a hand to her chest like she’s going to swoon. “We’re fucked.”

Seb’s already got his best graceful-in-defeat expression plastered on his face. “It was an honor to operate this stolen microwave by your sides.”

Joey tilts his head at us. “It’s okay, guys. We can just get some pickles on Saturday.”

Seb lets out a laugh before he can stop himself, one with an un-Seb-like edge to it. Joey blinks in surprise, leaving me to explain.

“Oh. Oh, Joey,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “We don’t care about pickles. We just care about the rush of unrepentantly crushing the competition and the sweet, sweet taste of victory.”

Choice words, because we do get to taste victory in the end—we take second, and our prize is that we get first dibs on claiming leftovers. I score some of the mac and cheese for Christina—turns out I’m too petty to eat any of it myself—and we all three disperse to the different clusters of students, trying the Rainbow Maple Ride Alliance’s delicious mix of buttered popcorn, Nerds, and Sour Patch Kids, the Trivia Club’s mini cheeseburger pizzas, the Bird Watching Society’s tortillas. By the end of the hour all the groups are mixed together, lawlessly sampling each other’s creations and trying to make new ones with the leftover ingredients.

“You trust me?”

I’m going to make some kind of crack like I usually do, but when I turn to see Seb behind me, eyes bright and conspiratorial, the laugh catches in my throat. For a moment, looking at the mischief streaked across his face feels like looking in a mirror—something I’ve seen so often that it’s almost as if it’s every bit as much my feeling as it is his.

“Sure,” I say.

Seb’s eyes gleam, his hand lifting a spoon. “Close your eyes,” he says.

I do, trying and failing not to laugh, my head bobbing with the effort. He sets a hand on my elbow as if to keep me in place. It works. I go entirely still, smiling into the spoon at the taste of warm chocolatey pudding—the cheap boxed kind that’s somehow better than any other version, nostalgic and overly sweet.

A little more overly than I was bargaining for, because when I bite down and there’s a splash of citrus in my mouth, I realize it is, in fact, chocolate pudding full of jelly beans.

Seb is already cracking up by the time my eyes fly open, and I shove at him, indignant and trying not to laugh with my mouth full of pudding.

“You’re a monster,” I accuse. I glance back at the Jelly Bean Appreciation Society. “No— they’re the monsters.”

“But you kind of like it though, don’t you?” says Seb.

I lick the flavor still stuck to my teeth and genuinely can’t decide. “I need to collect more data,” I say, reaching for the paper cup of pudding in his hand.

He deftly moves his arm behind his back. “Admit it’s delicious.”

I catch him by the elbow and tug, but he’s so immovable that I end up stumbling forward instead, my shoulder grazing his chest. “Admit you’re a monster.”

He tugs his elbow back, pulling me closer to him so that his face is mere inches from mine. A flutter rises up in my chest, giddy and ridiculous.

“Admit you’re going to lose this Newsbag competition,” he says right back.

What I lack in strength I have in speed. I drop his elbow and prime my body to dart behind him. “Admit you’re scared I’ll obliterate you,” I say.

“Scared? Nah,” he says. “Even when you do it’s always a good show.”

The words catch me just off guard enough that my sneaker snags on the floor and I end up nearly landing on top of him. Seb catches me by the arm just in time to stop us from falling, but not before we end up pressed against each other, chest to chest. I think of his heartbeat earlier, steady against my hand. Now my own is too loud to know if it’s his I’m feeling, or mine.

I step back, all too aware of Seb’s mirthful eyes on me.

“Well. I’d be careful if I were you,” I tell him, clearing my throat. “Never know when jelly beans might find their way into your next unsuspecting meal.”

Seb holds his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “I only thought maybe this would write over the mold memory,” he says. “So you can stop associating jelly beans with evil.”

I shake my head. “It’s a nice thought. But that one bean will haunt my mouth until I die.”

“Maybe the strawberry-lemonade pie will finally wash out the taste on Saturday?”

We both startle at the sight of Joey, who I thought was helping with an ill-fated attempt at a “cheeseburger in a cup” on the other side of the room. He’s collected his Spider-Man mug and is looking at us with an almost apprehensive smile, like he’s the odd one out even though we’re the freshmen.

I feel a pinch of guilt. “Here’s hoping,” I say.

“It’s like a mile walk to get there,” says Joey. “Want to meet on the quad at ten?”

“Yeah, ten works for me. How about you?” I ask Seb.

Seb blinks at me and then bites down a smile. “Uh, you know. I think I’m busy.”

Joey’s expression dims a bit, and my pinch of guilt becomes a twist. Somehow the Dorm Food-Off became a spin-off episode of the Seb and Sadie show, and I don’t want Joey to feel left out. Maybe I can get Christina to come.

The Dorm Food-Off ends for the night, with Seb getting the contact information of some of the organizations for a potential piece and me doing a lap to get one last potato chip Reese’s s’more for the road, which incidentally came with a link to a list of “Books That Will Make You Blubber.” Seb is laughing to himself and shaking his head when we lug the microwave back to the dorm.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

“Nothing,” he says, amused.

I narrow my eyes but don’t take the bait. Now that we’ve stepped out of the lecture hall I’m realizing that I did a lot of things tonight, but none of them were deciding on an angle for my piece.

We walk the rest of the way to my dorm in relative quiet. Seb must be in the same—well, for lack of a better word, pickle. At least nobody tries to commit a beloved nineties snack–themed murder when we return with the microwave.

I let out a sigh after we plug it back in. “Well, back to eating like we’re prisoners on a distant planet that never quite mastered Earth food.”

“Curious to see the dining hall’s interpretation of French toast sticks tomorrow,” says Seb. “And by curious I mean terrified.”

I walk him out to the hall, where already a few curious hallmates are lingering in doorways and the windows of the common room to get a good look at Seb. T minus twenty seconds before I have to start fielding questions about his relationship status again: “single, but probably not for long.”

“The sad part is most of this is way cheaper than the slop they’re serving in the dining halls,” I say in the meantime.

“Yeah.” Seb tilts his head down the hall. “And way subtler than you and Christina using your sweatshirt pockets to smuggle out midnight snacks.”

This time I feel the crackle before we both stop on a dime, before our eyes snap on each other’s. At the precise same moment, with the precise same resolve, we blurt the words, “I have an idea.”

For a charged, breathless moment, neither of us says anything. Like it isn’t just the crackle stunning us into place, but something larger and deeper brimming just under it, something we briefly lit up in the flash of our ideas. Something that makes my pulse race and my skin flush in a way that thrills me just as much as it scares me, until I push it back down.

“What’s yours?” I demand.

Seb blinks as if coming back to himself, then lets out a cocky laugh. “You tell me yours.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I asked first.”

If Seb wants anyone on our floor to think he’s single, he certainly isn’t doing himself any favors right now. Not with the way he’s leaning toward me, so close that I feel my body drawn to the heat of his like a magnet. Not with the slow way the smirk is curling on his lips, aimed at me so deliberately that not one person would dare get in its cross fire.

“How about this?” says Seb, his voice low. “We both finish our pieces, and then show them to each other at the same time.”

I tilt my head, angling my face up to better meet his gaze. Whatever is happening right now doesn’t feel like our usual game of chicken. Now the challenge isn’t how close we can get before one of us pulls away. The challenge is seeing just how close we can get before one of us crosses the distance.

So I lean in close, and closer still. Seb’s eyes widen, flickering to my mouth. Only at the last moment do I turn my head to the side of his, my lips close to his ear.

“Seems fair,” I say, feeling a flutter of satisfaction in my chest when Seb lets out a slight but clear shiver of surprise. “Let me know when you’ve got something halfway decent to share.”

This time it’s Seb who opens his mouth but can’t think of a proper comeback in time. I pull back, casting him one last smirk before I head down the hall to my room. Maybe the rules are changing, but one thing will always stay the same: I will not lose.