She hated how clearly she remembered the way he looked at her.
The walk home was colder than it had any right to be.
Lena Pierce didn't stomp. She placed her boots down with calculated efficiency. She didn't sulk; she processed. And she absolutely didn't replay that stupid moment in the lecture hall where Ethan Cole looked at her as if he had actually seen her.
"That look… What does it mean now?"
It meant nothing. Obviously.
She kicked a loose pebble into a bush.
It meant he was confused. Surprised. Maybe even intimidated. Good. He should be.
The streetlight ahead flickered. She didn't notice.
"'You used to compete for trophies,'" she muttered under her breath, mimicking his tone. "'Now it feels like you're competing for something else.'"
She hated how close he was to being right. Hated it more that she didn't have a rebuttal that made her feel smart.
Lena reached her house, dumped her bag by the door, and went straight to the living room cabinet. Her trophy shelf still sat in the corner—immaculate, gleaming, alphabetized.
She opened the glass.
First place. Gold. Regional, national, and even an international math meet. Each plaque a receipt. Each medal a defense.
Then there was the second-place ribbon. Just one. Red and defiant.
The label on it: Academic Invitational. Final Round.
His name was above hers.
She hadn't thrown it away.
Lena shut the cabinet harder than necessary.
In her room, she collapsed backward on her bed, arm flung over her eyes. Her phone buzzed once. Then again. Group chat nonsense.
Probably about Ethan. Or Isabella. Or both.
Lena exhaled sharply.
"So now they all like him?" she muttered.
She could almost hear their voices:
- Isn't he dreamy now?
- There's something different about him.
- He's not like other top scorers—he's quiet, but when he talks, it's like...
Ugh.
What changed?
He still wore the same boring jackets. Still sat near the window. Still read through assignments like they were too easy.
And yet—
He asked her what her look meant.
Not what she was solving. Not what rank she was aiming for. Not why are you here now?
Just: What does it mean?
No one had ever asked her that.
She groaned into her pillow.
"It's not like I care or anything," she mumbled.
Beat.
"But he better not get dumber just because they're all staring now."
Beat.
"…And he better not look at anyone else like that."
He was still just Ethan Cole—still the same frustrating, infuriating rival.So why did it suddenly feel like she was the one trying to catch up?