Work Text:
Wemmbu knew three things before she even stepped onto campus.
One: college was supposed to be a fresh start.
Two: she looked incredible today, in a way that was casual if you ignored the forty-seven minutes she’d spent deciding whether “effortless” meant hair up, hair down, or hair up in a way that looked like it had fallen down on purpose.
Three: if anyone from her childhood saw her trip over the uneven brick path outside Unstable University’s main library, she would have to fake her own death and transfer to a school in another country.
Preferably one without bricks. Preferably one without witnesses. Preferably one without—
“Still losing fights against the ground?”
Wemmbu froze.
Every nerve in her body stood up, pointed, and screamed like a crowd at a sports event.
No.
Absolutely not.
The universe, being a petty little goblin with excellent comedic timing, had apparently decided that Wemmbu’s fresh start needed seasoning. Specifically, the seasoning of humiliation. Possibly paprika. Possibly emotional damage.
She turned slowly.
Standing a few feet away, one hand holding the strap of a black backpack, was a woman Wemmbu recognized immediately and against her will.
Flame.
Flame, who had once beaten her in the fourth-grade spelling bee by spelling “catastrophe” while making direct eye contact, like a tiny villain in pigtails.
Flame, who had stolen first place from her at field day by exactly half a second and then offered her a juice box as if that wasn’t psychological warfare.
Flame, who had grown up into the sort of woman people probably described as intimidating before realizing she had the awkward social grace of a startled deer.
Flame, who was taller now.
Annoyingly taller.
Unfairly taller.
She had broad shoulders under a dark jacket, sharp eyes, and the kind of calm, intense expression that made people step out of her way in hallways. Her hair was braided back messily, a few strands loose around her face, and she looked like she had walked straight out of some dramatic campus rumor. The kind of person people whispered about.
Do you think she’s in a fight club?
I heard she once broke a vending machine with one hand.
She looks like she could kill a man.
Wemmbu knew better.
Flame had once cried because a beetle flipped over on the sidewalk and couldn’t get up and his friend Lo- something loved them.
Unfortunately, this knowledge did not make her less attractive.
Which was rude.
Wemmbu straightened, brushing invisible dust from her jeans with tremendous dignity.
“I wasn’t losing,” she said. “I was testing campus infrastructure.”
Flame’s mouth twitched.
Oh, no.
That almost-smile.
Wemmbu hated that almost-smile. She had hated it since they were eight and Flame had used it after beating her at Mario Kart four times in a row. It was smug without technically being smug. Gentle without being kind enough to prevent violence. A weaponized curve of the mouth.
“Did the ground pass?” Flame asked.
“No. I’m filing a complaint.”
“With who?”
“God.”
Flame blinked.
Then she laughed.
It wasn’t loud. Flame had never laughed like she was trying to take up space. Her laughter slipped out of her like something she hadn’t meant to reveal, low and soft and a little surprised.
Wemmbu’s stomach did something upsetting.
Not a flip.
A flip was cute. Manageable. Marketable.
This was more like her stomach had thrown itself down a staircase while holding a sign that said WE ARE IN DANGER.
She crossed her arms.
“So,” Wemmbu said, because when in doubt, act like you’re hosting an interview and not actively unraveling, “you go here.”
Flame adjusted her backpack strap.
“I do.”
“Tragic for the school.”
“Great to see you too.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it with your warm personality.”
“My personality is scorching. People fear it.”
“People fear you?”
“They should.”
Flame looked her up and down. Not in a gross way. In a familiar way. Like she was trying to match this version of Wemmbu to the one in her memory.
Wemmbu suddenly became aware of her earrings, her jacket, the tiny scuff on her left shoe, the fact that her heart was behaving like it had been given caffeine and a drum set.
“You’re different,” Flame said.
Wemmbu raised an eyebrow. “That better be a compliment.”
“It is.”
The answer came too quickly.
Too honestly.
Wemmbu’s mouth opened.
No words came out.
This was unacceptable. Words were her thing. Her brand. Her strongest weapon, aside from sarcasm and the ability to dramatically sigh and whine at people until they apologized.
Flame looked away first, faint color touching her cheeks.
“I mean,” Flame added, suddenly very interested in the library steps, “you look… good. Older. Obviously. Because time passed. That’s how aging works.”
There she was.
Awkward Flame.
Tiny beetle-rescuer Flame.
Wemmbu should have pounced on the vulnerability. She had been born for this.
Instead, her brain supplied: She thinks I look good, she noticed, did I want her to notice?
Wemmbu cleared her throat.
“Well, you look…” She gestured vaguely at Flame. “Tall.”
Flame stared.
“That’s it?”
“I’m withholding further praise until I determine whether you’re still evil.”
“I was never evil.”
“You hid my science fair volcano.”
“You painted my bike neon orange.”
“You looked better on it than I expected.”
Flame’s eyes warmed. “You remember all that?”
Wemmbu scoffed.
“Please. I remember everything. I have a mind like a steel trap.”
This was mostly true, if the steel trap was specifically designed to hold embarrassing memories of Flame and nothing useful like passwords or assignment deadlines.
Flame’s gaze softened in a way that made Wemmbu want to throw something… Probably herself… Into a river.
“It’s been years,” Flame said.
“Yeah,” Wemmbu replied, lighter than she felt. “And somehow you still haven’t apologized for stealing my pudding cup in sixth grade.”
“I didn’t steal it. You bet it.”
“I was under emotional duress.”
“You said you could beat me at tetherball.”
“I could have.”
“You lost in eleven seconds.”
“Because the sun was in my eyes.”
“It was indoors.”
“Indoor sun. Very dangerous.”
Flame laughed again, and Wemmbu hated how much she wanted to hear it a third time.
There was a pause, a strange one, not empty. Full.
Years stretched between them, but for a second they felt thin as paper. Like Wemmbu could poke one finger through and touch the past. She could see them so clearly. Two girls in matching elementary uniforms, standing on opposite sides of the playground, shoes dusty, faces serious with the sacred intensity of children who had invented a war no one else understood.
Flame, hair crooked from running, holding a red rubber ball.
Wemmbu, knees scraped, chin lifted.
“Winner gets the swings first,” little Wemmbu had declared.
Flame had narrowed her eyes. “Winner gets both swings.”
“There are only two.”
“Exactly.”
“You can’t use both.”
“I can if I win.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Beat me, then.”
And Wemmbu had.
Or, well.
She had tried.
The ball had smacked her square in the stomach, bounced away, and Flame had immediately dropped everything to rush over.
“Are you okay?” little Flame had asked, panic bright in her face.
Wemmbu, gasping like a dramatic Victorian child on her fainting couch, had wheezed, “You… monster…”
“I’m sorry!”
“You did this… for swings…”
“You said to beat you!”
“You chose violence.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
And then Flame had done something strange. She’d given Wemmbu both swings. Not because she’d won. Because she looked guilty. Wemmbu had sat on one swing, holding her stomach and pretending to be mortally wounded, while Flame stood beside the other, not using it.
“You can swing too,” Wemmbu had said after a while.
Flame had looked at her shoes. “You said both swings.”
“I’m allowing you visitation rights.”
Flame had glanced up.
Wemmbu had kicked her legs, soaring just a little, and Flame had smiled like being allowed beside her was better than winning.
Back in the present, Wemmbu blinked.
Flame was watching her.
“What?” Wemmbu demanded.
“You had that face.”
“What face?”
“The remembering face.”
“I don’t have a remembering face.”
“You do.”
“Describe it and perish.”
Flame’s smile deepened. “You look less mean.”
“Wow. You really know how to make a girl swoon.”
Flame’s eyes flicked to hers.
The air shifted.
Wemmbu immediately regretted every word she had ever said in her entire life, which was inconvenient, because she had said many excellent things.
Before Flame could answer, a group of students brushed past them, laughing, breaking the moment like glass.
Wemmbu stepped back.
“So,” she said brightly. Too brightly. The kind of brightly that came with warning labels. “Since the universe has cursed me with your presence, I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re majoring in something insufferably noble.”
“Mechanical engineering.”
“Disgusting. Useful.”
“What about you?”
“Media studies.”
Flame nodded. “That fits.”
Wemmbu narrowed her eyes. “Say that like an insult and I’ll make your life a documentary.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
“Everything is an insult if I’m insecure enough.”
Flame’s expression softened.
Again.
She really needed to stop doing that. It was causing structural damage.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Flame said.
Oh.
That was not teasing.
That was not competitive.
That was not a jab Wemmbu could dodge, twist, and throw back with a ribbon on it.
It landed right in the softest part of her, the part she kept hidden under jokes and dramatic confidence and the carefully maintained illusion that she did not need anyone to choose her.
She looked away first.
“Don’t get sentimental,” she said. “It’s embarrassing for both of us.”
“Too late.”
“Flame.”
“What?”
“You’re doing the earnest thing.”
“I am earnest.”
“I know. It’s horrifying.”
A beat.
Then Flame said, “Coffee?”
Wemmbu’s head snapped back.
“What?”
Flame’s confidence vanished so completely it deserved a funeral.
“I mean- do you want coffee? Not in a weird way. Unless coffee is weird. It can be weird if you make eye contact too long. I’m not asking you to make eye contact with coffee.”
Wemmbu stared.
Flame closed her eyes briefly, as if asking the heavens why she had been allowed speech.
“I’m asking if you want to catch up,” Flame said, quieter. “With me.”
There it was again. With me. Not against me. Not around me. With me.
Wemmbu should have made a joke. She did make a joke. Obviously. She was still herself, not a tragic heroine suddenly overcome by sincerity.
“Fine,” she said. “But only because I need to assess whether you’re still my enemy.”
Flame opened her eyes.
“And?”
“And enemies buy coffee.”
Flame’s smile came back, slow and devastating.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll buy.”
Wemmbu turned before her face could betray her. “Good. I take my victory latte with oat milk.”
“Victory latte?”
“Yes.”
“Did you win something?”
“I survived seeing you again.”
Flame fell into step beside her.
“That was a competition?”
“Everything is a competition.”
“Then I survived too.”
Wemmbu glanced at her. Flame looked straight ahead, but her ears were pink. Wemmbu’s chest went tight. Oh, this was going to be a problem. A terrible problem. A tall, gentle, awkward, unfairly pretty problem. And worse–
Wemmbu had missed her.
Not the idea of her. Not the old rivalry. Not the thrill of having someone who would chase, match, and challenge her until the world felt brighter.
Her.
Flame.
The girl who had thrown dodgeballs too hard and apologized too fast. The girl who had stolen her pudding and given her half back when she looked sad. The girl who had always looked at Wemmbu like she was worth paying attention to.
God.
Wemmbu was in danger.
And she hadn’t even had coffee yet.
The campus café was called The Daily Grind, because apparently every college café was legally required to have a name that sounded like a cry for help.
Inside, it smelled like espresso, cinnamon, and deadlines.
Wemmbu claimed a small table by the window with the confidence of a queen taking a throne. Flame returned with two drinks, one iced coffee and one oat milk latte, and placed the latte in front of her.
Wemmbu eyed it.
“You remembered?”
Flame sat across from her. “You used to hate regular milk.”
“That was years ago.”
“You once called it ‘cow betrayal.’”
“That still stands.”
Flame smiled into her coffee.
Wemmbu took a sip to hide her own smile and immediately burned her tongue.
Wonderful.
Excellent.
Romance was dead and so was her mouth.
“You okay?” Flame asked.
“Perfect,” Wemmbu said, voice slightly strangled. “I enjoy pain. Builds character.”
“You haven’t changed that much.”
Wemmbu pointed at her. “Careful. I’m mysterious now.”
“You’re wearing a keychain shaped like a raccoon holding a knife.”
“That’s part of the mystery.”
Flame leaned back, her expression easy in a way Wemmbu didn’t remember. Or maybe she did. Maybe Flame had always been easy with her, and Wemmbu had been too busy trying to win to notice.
“So,” Flame said. “Still competitive?”
Wemmbu nearly choked.
“Still? Flame, I am the final boss of competitive.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I’d be disappointed if you got boring.”
Wemmbu pressed a hand to her chest. “You wound me.”
“You’ll live.”
“Cold. Cruel. Emotionally devastating. I see college has corrupted you.”
Flame’s eyes gleamed. “Want to prove you’re still the final boss?”
Wemmbu’s entire soul sat up.
“What are we proving?”
Flame nodded toward the chalkboard wall near the counter, where someone had drawn a leaderboard for the café’s weekly trivia night. Teams of two. Prize: free drinks for a week.
Wemmbu followed her gaze.
Oh.
Oh, she saw what this was.
A challenge.
A trap.
A flirtation wearing a fake mustache.
Probably.
Maybe.
Possibly Wemmbu was projecting because Flame’s hands looked nice around her coffee cup and her brain had become soup.
“You want to team up?” Wemmbu asked.
Flame tilted her head. “Unless you’re scared.”
Wemmbu gasped.
A real gasp. Theatrical. Beautiful. Award-worthy.
“Scared? Of trivia? I was born knowing random facts.”
“You thought narwhals were fictional until seventh grade.”
“They look fictional.”
“You cried when I showed you a video.”
“Because it was beautiful, not because I was wrong.”
“You said, ‘The unicorns of the sea have betrayed me.’”
Wemmbu slammed her cup down. “We are entering trivia night.”
Flame’s smile widened.
There it was.
The old spark.
The challenge thrown like a ribbon between them.
But this time, something about it felt different.
When they were children, competing had been the only language they knew. They had fought over test scores and lunch trades and who could climb higher on the jungle gym, each victory a tiny flare sent into the sky:
Look at me.
Notice me.
Pick me.
Back then, Wemmbu hadn’t understood why losing to Flame stung more than losing to anyone else.
She just knew that when Flame beat her, Flame looked at her.
And when Flame looked at her, the whole world sharpened.
In fifth grade, they had competed over reading logs.
It was supposed to be simple. Read books. Write down minutes. Get a pizza party.
Most children treated this like a normal school activity.
Wemmbu and Flame treated it like war.
By Wednesday, Flame had logged two hundred minutes.
Wemmbu logged two hundred and five.
By Friday, Flame had logged four hundred.
Wemmbu logged four hundred and ten, because she was not just a competitor, she was an artist.
On Monday morning, Flame arrived with a reading log so full it had extra paper stapled to the back.
Wemmbu stared at it in horror.
“What is that?”
Flame held it up, solemn as a knight presenting a sword. “My victory.”
“You read that much?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Weekend.”
“You were supposed to be at Jaden’s birthday party.”
“I brought a book.”
“To a trampoline park?”
Flame nodded.
Wemmbu was furious.
Also impressed.
Also maybe a little touched, because Flame had bounced exactly once, fallen over, then spent the rest of the party sitting beside Wemmbu while she pretended not to be scared of the highest trampoline.
At the end of the month, Flame won.
Wemmbu did not speak to her for an entire recess.
This lasted seven minutes.
Then Flame appeared beside her under the big oak tree, holding a slice of pizza on a napkin.
“You won,” Wemmbu muttered. “Go celebrate with your cheese trophy.”
Flame sat down anyway.
“I saved you one.”
“I don’t want your pity pizza.”
“It has extra pepperoni.”
Wemmbu looked.
Damn.
Her weakness.
She took it with great reluctance and no hesitation.
Flame watched her eat.
After a while, she said, “I only read that much because you did.”
Wemmbu frowned. “What?”
“I wanted to beat you.”
“Obviously.”
“But…” Flame picked at the grass. “It was more fun when you were trying too.”
Wemmbu, age ten and deeply unequipped for emotional nuance, had shoved the pizza crust into her mouth to avoid answering.
But she had kept the napkin.
For no reason.
Obviously.
Just because it had a doodle Flame had drawn in the corner: a tiny dragon breathing fire over a stack of books.
Wemmbu had found it years later tucked inside an old shoebox and had stared at it for so long her mother asked if she was okay.
She had said yes.
She had not been yes.
Trivia night happened three days later.
By then, Wemmbu had seen Flame on campus four more times.
Not that she was counting.
She wasn’t.
Her brain simply had a dedicated Flame surveillance department now, apparently. Very professional. Extremely concerning. Every time Flame appeared in the dining hall or across the quad or in the library stacks, Wemmbu’s internal narrator lost its tiny mind.
There she is. Tall menace at three o’clock.
Subject is wearing a gray hoodie. Repeat: gray hoodie. Casualties expected.
Subject smiled. We have lost cabin pressure.
It was humiliating.
It was also becoming the highlight of her day, which was worse.
At trivia night, Flame arrived early and saved them a table.
Wemmbu slid into the seat across from her. “Planning to carry me?”
“Planning to watch you overthink questions about state capitals.”
“I know state capitals.”
“You thought Chicago was a state.”
“I was seven.”
“You were thirteen.”
“I was emotionally seven.”
Flame laughed.
Wemmbu kicked her lightly under the table.
Flame kicked back.
Just once.
Gentle.
It should not have felt intimate.
It did.
Wemmbu’s soul left her body, looked at the situation, and filed a complaint with management.
They named their team Childhood Trauma, because Wemmbu suggested it and Flame laughed too hard to refuse.
The first round was easy.
Movies. Music. Basic history.
Wemmbu handled pop culture with the feral confidence of someone who had spent too much of her teenage life online. Flame handled science and geography, quietly devastating the competition while looking like she would rather be invisible.
By round three, they were tied for first.
The opposing team at the next table, a pair of boys calling themselves CartWings, kept glancing over.
One of them, a blond guy with a backward cap and sunglasses indoors, smirked after Wemmbu answered a question about Greek mythology.
“Didn’t expect that from Team Childhood Trauma,” he said.
Wemmbu turned slowly.
Flame stiffened beside her.
Oh, no.
Wemmbu knew that stiffness.
Flame had always been protective in a way that started quiet and ended with someone regretting their life choices.
Wemmbu smiled sweetly at the guy.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t expect literacy from a hat worn backward and sunnies indoors, but here we are. Learning.”
His friends snorted.
The guy flushed.
Flame made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh and covered it with a cough.
Wemmbu preened.
“Careful,” Flame murmured.
“Please. I’m being nice.”
“You called him illiterate.”
“I implied it. There’s artistry in implication.”
Flame leaned closer, voice low. “He was being rude.”
Something in Wemmbu softened.
There it was again.
That protectiveness. Not loud. Not performative. Just present.
Like Flame had already moved, in some private part of herself, between Wemmbu and the world.
Wemmbu hated how much she liked it.
“I can handle rude men in hats,” she whispered back.
“I know.”
Flame said it without hesitation.
Not I think.
Not probably.
I know.
“I just don’t like people talking to you like that,” Flame added.
Wemmbu’s brain blue-screened.
A full system error.
Emotional processing unavailable. Please restart sarcasm.
She swallowed.
“Wow,” she said faintly. “Possessive much?”
Flame’s eyes widened.
“I didn’t mean–”
“I’m kidding.”
“I know.”
“You look like I shot you.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
Flame looked at her, and the room seemed to fade around them.
“This,” she said.
Wemmbu forgot how to breathe.
The trivia host announced the next question, saving them both from whatever reckless honesty had nearly escaped.
“Final round!” the host called. “For the win: In chess, what is the only piece that can jump over another piece?”
Wemmbu and Flame looked at each other.
Wemmbu grabbed the pencil.
Flame said, “Knight.”
Wemmbu wrote it down.
Their hands bumped.
A tiny touch.
Barely anything.
Lightning.
Wemmbu almost wrote “feelings” instead of “knight,” which would have been both incorrect and spiritually accurate.
They won.
Of course they won.
They were Wemmbu and Flame.
Winning together, as it turned out, felt dangerously good.
The café cheered politely. The host handed them two vouchers for free drinks. Flame looked at the prize like she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Wemmbu snatched one voucher and waved it.
“Victory,” she declared.
Flame smiled. “Shared victory.”
“Don’t ruin it with teamwork propaganda.”
“We were a team.”
“We were a temporary alliance.”
“Temporary?”
The question came out softer than the joke deserved.
Wemmbu looked at her.
Flame was still smiling, but something nervous lived beneath it. Something careful.
Like she had placed a tiny hope on the table and was pretending not to watch whether Wemmbu would knock it off.
Wemmbu’s chest squeezed.
She thought suddenly of primary school.
Of the last year before everything changed.
Sixth grade had been the year rivalry became distance.
It started with the talent show.
Wemmbu had signed up for a comedy routine because she liked making people laugh and because applause felt like proof she existed. Flame had signed up for a martial arts demonstration because she was strong and quiet and terrifyingly focused even then.
They had spent two weeks trash-talking.
“You’re going down,” Wemmbu said at lunch, stabbing her pudding cup with a spoon.
Flame lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not a competition.”
“There are judges.”
“It’s a talent show.”
“With judges.”
“For participation.”
“Everything is a competition if you have vision.”
Flame had rolled her eyes, but she smiled.
On the night of the show, Wemmbu was supposed to go first.
She stood backstage in her sparkly jacket, clutching her index cards so tightly they bent.
The auditorium beyond the curtain sounded enormous.
Too many voices.
Too many eyes.
Her jokes, which had been hilarious in her bedroom mirror, suddenly looked stupid. Painfully stupid. The kind of stupid people remembered forever. The kind of stupid Flame would see.
Her breathing got weird.
Her hands shook.
She turned to escape and nearly ran straight into Flame.
Flame was in her demonstration uniform, hair tied back, expression serious.
“You okay?” Flame asked.
“Obviously,” Wemmbu said, voice cracking like a betrayal. “I’m incredible.”
Flame glanced at the bent cards.
Then she stepped closer, blocking Wemmbu from view of the other students.
“You don’t have to do it,” Flame said.
Wemmbu laughed too sharply. “What, and let you win?”
“I don’t care about winning.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Not like this.”
Wemmbu looked up.
Flame’s face was open. Worried.
And for some reason, that made everything worse.
Because if Flame was kind, Wemmbu might fall apart.
So she did what she always did when someone got too close to the soft, terrified center of her.
She bit.
“Don’t pretend you’re not waiting for me to fail,” Wemmbu snapped.
Flame flinched.
It was tiny.
Wemmbu saw it anyway.
“That’s not true,” Flame said.
“Sure.”
“I wanted to watch you.”
The words were quiet.
Wemmbu heard them.
She didn’t know what to do with them.
I wanted to watch you.
Not beat you.
Not laugh at you.
Watch you.
Cheer for you, maybe.
Choose you, in the only way a twelve-year-old knew how.
But Wemmbu was scared, and scared made her cruel.
“Don’t,” she said. “I don’t need you.”
The curtain call came.
Wemmbu went onstage.
She performed.
She got laughs.
She won a participation ribbon exactly like everyone else, which should have proven Flame right and Wemmbu wrong, a tragedy of historic proportions.
But when she came offstage, Flame was gone.
After that, something shifted.
They still competed, but the easy warmth curdled. Their teasing sharpened. Their arguments became real. Then came high school at different schools, different friends, different lives.
By the time they stopped texting, Wemmbu had convinced herself it didn’t matter.
After all, she didn’t need anyone.
Especially not Flame.
Especially not the girl whose absence felt like losing a game she hadn’t realized she was playing.
Back in the café, Flame still waited for an answer.
Temporary?
Wemmbu could make a joke.
She could say yes, obviously, alliance expires at midnight, Cinderella rules.
She could keep everything light and safe and unserious.
Instead, she looked down at the voucher in her hand.
“No,” she said.
Flame went still.
Wemmbu forced herself to meet her eyes.
“Not temporary.”
Flame’s expression changed so slowly it hurt.
Hope, cautious and bright, returned to the table.
“Okay,” Flame said.
Just okay.
But her voice was soft enough to ruin Wemmbu’s entire week.
After trivia night, they became a habit.
Not officially.
Officially, Wemmbu was “monitoring her enemy for suspicious activity.”
Officially, Flame was “making sure Wemmbu didn’t commit crimes in public.”
Unofficially, they ate lunch together three times a week, studied in the library, argued over vending machine snacks, and texted with the frequency of people who absolutely did not have crushes and were simply very dedicated to maintaining a long-term rivalry.
Flame: You left your notebook in the café.
Incorrect. I donated it to the café ecosystem. :Wemmbu
Flame: Do you want it back?
Obviously. :Wemmbu
Flame: I’ll bring it to class.
Wow. Delivery service. Five stars. :Wemmbu
Flame: You drew a raccoon with a sword in the margins.
That’s private intellectual property. :Wemmbu
Flame: It’s wearing my jacket.
Coincidence. :Wemmbu
Flame: It says “Flame if she was cooler.”
Still coincidence. :Wemmbu
Flame: I’m keeping this page.
THIEF. :Wemmbu
Flame did return the notebook.
She did not return the page.
Wemmbu pretended to be furious for three days.
On the fourth day, she found the drawing tucked carefully into Flame’s phone case.
Her heart attempted a prison break.
They studied together in the library one rainy afternoon, the sky outside dark and blurred, the windows streaked silver.
Wemmbu had a paper due.
Flame had an engineering problem set that looked like math had declared war on the alphabet.
They sat side by side instead of across from each other, because Flame had claimed she needed to “see Wemmbu’s laptop screen to make sure she wasn’t procrastinating.”
Wemmbu was absolutely procrastinating.
She had written her title, deleted it, written it again, changed the font, opened three tabs about essay structure, and spent eight minutes researching whether raccoons could be domesticated.
“You’re not writing,” Flame said without looking up.
“You don’t know my process.”
“Your process involves a tab titled ‘can raccoons love.’”
“Relevant research.”
“To media theory?”
“To my soul.”
Flame reached over and gently turned Wemmbu’s laptop back toward the document.
Their shoulders brushed.
Wemmbu stared at the screen as if it had personally betrayed her.
“Rude,” she whispered.
“Write one paragraph.”
“Make me.”
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
Flame went still.
Wemmbu went still.
Somewhere in the library, a printer made a choking sound. Relatable.
Flame turned her head.
She was close. Too close. Close enough for Wemmbu to notice the faint scar near her eyebrow, the warmth in her brown eyes, the way her expression had gone careful again.
“I can,” Flame said quietly.
Wemmbu’s soul ascended.
She covered panic with a scoff.
“By what, threatening me with responsible time management?”
“Yes.”
“Devastating.”
“I’ll also take your phone.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Flame held out her hand.
Wemmbu clutched her phone to her chest. “This is tyranny.”
“This is care.”
Oh.
Wemmbu looked at her.
Flame seemed to realize what she’d said a second after saying it. Her ears turned red.
“I mean,” she added quickly, “academic care. Rival care. I want to beat you fairly, and I can’t if you fail because of raccoon research.”
Wemmbu should have laughed.
She did, a little.
But mostly she felt something unfold inside her, fragile and aching.
Care.
Flame cared.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Not in a way that demanded repayment.
She cared like she had saved pizza. Like she had given Wemmbu both swings. Like she had stood backstage and said, You don’t have to do it.
Wemmbu handed over her phone.
Flame accepted it with visible surprise.
“Wow,” she said.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I won.”
“You did not win. I strategically surrendered.”
“A surrender is a loss.”
“Say that again and I’ll bite you.”
Flame’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
Only for half a second.
Wemmbu saw it.
The library, the rain, the entire concept of higher education—gone.
Flame looked away sharply.
Wemmbu’s fingers froze on her keyboard.
Oh.
Oh.
She wasn’t imagining it.
The tension wasn’t one-sided. The softness wasn’t just nostalgia. Flame looked at her like she was trying very hard not to want something.nAnd Wemmbu, unfortunately, had never been good at letting Flame win alone. The breaking point came during the campus charity dodgeball tournament. Because of course it did.
Some people confessed feelings under stars, or in gardens, or after heartfelt speeches in softly lit rooms. Wemmbu and Flame, naturally, chose violence.
The tournament was hosted in the gym. Teams of six. Ridiculous matching shirts. Too many people yelling.
Wemmbu signed them up without asking.
Flame stared at the team roster. “You put us on a dodgeball team?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because destiny demanded it.”
“Destiny?”
“And also the prize is a hundred-dollar bookstore gift card.”
Flame’s eyes narrowed. “You want books?”
“I want victory.”
“You hate dodgeball.”
“I hate losing more.”
Flame looked at the court, then back at her.
For a moment, something old crossed her face.
A playground, a red rubber ball ,a little girl gasping dramatically on the ground.
Wemmbu saw the memory land.
She smiled before she could stop herself.
“Relax,” she said. “This time, if you take me out, I’ll haunt you.”
Flame’s mouth softened. “I don’t want to take you out.”
Wemmbu, regrettably, had no control over her response.
“You could take me out to dinner.”
Silence.
Immediate.
Catastrophic.
Wemmbu’s brain sprinted in circles screaming.
Abort! Abort! That was flirting! That was unmistakably flirting! We have breached containment!
Flame stared at her.
Wemmbu threw both hands up. “As enemies. Enemy dinner. Very hostile. Breadsticks of hatred.”
Flame’s face flushed.
But she smiled.
“I could,” she said.
Wemmbu forgot how knees worked.
The tournament began.
Their team was terrible.
Correction: four members of their team were terrible. Wemmbu was chaotic and slippery, which counted as a skill. Flame was a force of nature.
People avoided throwing at Flame after the first round because she caught everything with terrifying calm. She moved like she could see the future. Wemmbu, meanwhile, survived mostly by shrieking insults and ducking behind taller people.
At one point, a ball came flying straight toward Wemmbu’s head. She saw it too late. Her body froze. Then Flame was there. She stepped in front of Wemmbu and caught the ball hard against her chest.
The impact sounded painful. Flame barely moved. The gym roared. The thrower was out. Wemmbu stared at Flame’s back. Something hot and frightened rushed through her.
“What the hell?” she snapped, grabbing Flame’s arm. “Are you okay?”
Flame turned, surprised.
“I’m fine.”
“That could’ve hurt you.”
“It didn’t.”
“You don’t know that. You’re built like a dramatic wall, not immortal.” (heh immortal demon)
Flame blinked.
Then her expression softened in that unbearable way.
“You were worried.”
Wemmbu released her arm like it had caught fire.
“I was annoyed.”
“You were worried.”
“I need you alive so I can defeat you personally.”
Flame leaned closer, voice low enough that only Wemmbu could hear over the gym noise.
“You can admit you care.”
Wemmbu’s chest clenched. There it was. The challenge beneath the words. Not trivia. Not grades. Not swings or spelling bees or stolen pudding cups. This was the real competition now. Who would be brave first?
Wemmbu looked at Flame, at the woman who had once been a girl she didn’t know how to keep. The girl she had pushed away because being wanted scared her more than being hated. The woman who still stepped in front of flying things for her like it was obvious. Like Wemmbu was obvious.
Something in her cracked.
“I do,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s eyes widened.
Wemmbu’s heart pounded so hard she felt it everywhere.
“I care,” she said, and the words came out rougher than she meant. “Obviously I care. It’s annoying how much I care. It’s actually humiliating. I’ve considered filing a formal complaint with my emotional department, but they’re understaffed and mostly screaming.”
Flame stared at her.
Wemmbu couldn’t stop now.
Apparently her mouth had chosen honesty as its final act.
“I missed you,” she said. “When we stopped talking. I pretended I didn’t, because I’m incredibly committed to being emotionally stupid, but I did. And when I saw you again, I thought it would feel like old times, like we’d just fight and joke and everything would be simple, but it’s not simple, because you keep looking at me like that and remembering things and buying my stupid oat milk latte and protecting me from athletic murder balls, and I—”
A whistle blew.
Someone yelled, “You’re still in the game!”
A ball rolled gently against Wemmbu’s shoe.
She looked down.
Then up.
Everyone was staring.
Wonderful.
Fantastic.
Nothing improved romance like an audience and rubber projectiles.
Wemmbu picked up the ball and whipped it blindly across the court.
It hit the backward-cap and sunnies guy from trivia directly in the stomach.
He went down with an offended wheeze.
The gym erupted.
Wemmbu pointed at him. “That’s for literacy!”
Flame laughed.
Not soft this time.
Loud.
Bright.
Unrestrained.
It hit Wemmbu harder than any dodgeball could have.
Then Flame took her hand.
In the middle of the court.
In front of everyone.
Her fingers were warm and steady.
Wemmbu stared down at their joined hands as if they were evidence at a crime scene.
Flame squeezed once.
“I missed you too,” she said.
Wemmbu looked up.
Flame’s face was flushed, eyes shining, expression open in a way that made her look less intimidating and more like the girl under the oak tree offering pity pizza with extra pepperoni.
“I missed competing with you,” Flame said. “And arguing with you. And watching you pretend you weren’t scared when you were. And watching you be brave anyway.” Her thumb brushed over Wemmbu’s knuckles. “I didn’t know how to say it back then. I just knew I wanted your attention all the time.”
Wemmbu’s throat tightened.
Flame gave a small, helpless smile.
“I think I was in love with you before I knew what that meant.”
The gym disappeared.
The noise, the game, the staring students—all of it blurred.
Wemmbu felt thirteen again and twenty at once. Felt the ache of every almost. Every challenge. Every argument that had really meant please don’t stop looking at me.
Her usual defenses rose automatically.
Make a joke.
Deflect.
Run.
Instead, she held Flame’s hand tighter.
“Terrible taste,” Wemmbu whispered.
Flame laughed shakily. “Probably.”
“I was deeply annoying.”
“You still are.”
“Excuse you, I am charmingly annoying.”
“You are.”
The answer was immediate.
Too fond.
Wemmbu’s face warmed.
“Don’t agree so sincerely. It’s aggressive.”
Flame stepped closer.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
The whistle blew again.
Their teammate shouted, “Are you two flirting or playing?”
Wemmbu did not look away from Flame.
“Yes,” she called back.
Flame’s smile turned helpless and radiant.
They lost the tournament two rounds later.
Technically.
Emotionally, Wemmbu felt like she had won something far more dangerous.
They ended up outside after the tournament, sitting on the low stone wall behind the gym as evening settled over campus.
The sky was purple at the edges. The air smelled like wet grass and pavement cooling after a warm day.
Wemmbu had a bruise forming on her elbow.
Flame had one on her shoulder from the ball she’d caught.
Wemmbu was pretending not to fuss over it.
This was difficult, because she very much wanted to fuss.
Possibly with her hands.
Possibly with her mouth.
No.
Absolutely not.
Too soon.
Probably.
Maybe.
She needed a committee. A council. A flowchart.
Flame sat beside her, close enough that their knees touched.
Neither of them moved away.
“So,” Wemmbu said.
“So,” Flame echoed.
“Are we going to talk about the part where you confessed your tragic childhood love in the middle of a dodgeball tournament?”
Flame groaned, covering her face with one hand.
Wemmbu grinned.
Oh, this was excellent. This was delicious. This was revenge for years of Flame being impossible to fluster.
“You said,” Wemmbu continued, pitching her voice dramatically, “‘I think I was in love with you before I knew what that meant.’”
“Please stop.”
“Powerful. Cinematic. Slightly inconvenient timing.”
“I know.”
“Ten out of ten. Would emotionally devastate again.”
Flame peeked through her fingers. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Yes.”
Flame’s face fell slightly.
Wemmbu’s heart lurched.
She reached over and tugged Flame’s hand down.
“Hey,” she said, quieter. “Only because I liked it.”
Flame searched her face.
Wemmbu forced herself not to look away.
“I liked it,” she repeated. “A lot. An embarrassing amount. Like, if liking it were an Olympic sport, I would be tested for performance-enhancing feelings.”
Flame’s mouth twitched.
“There she is,” Wemmbu said.
“Where?”
“My favorite almost-smile.”
Flame’s expression softened.
Wemmbu realized what she had said a second too late.
Favorite.
Not enemy smile.
Not stupid smile.
Favorite.
Flame’s gaze dropped to her mouth again.
This time, she didn’t look away.
Wemmbu’s body went very still.
Oh.
Okay.
So they were here.
This was happening.
Possibly.
Potentially.
The kiss zone had been entered.
Wemmbu had imagined first kisses before, obviously. She was not immune to romance despite her best efforts. But in her imagination, she was always smooth. Devastating. In control.
In reality, she was sitting on a stone wall with sweaty tournament hair, a bruised elbow, and the sudden certainty that if Flame kissed her, she might actually make a noise only dogs could hear.
Flame leaned closer, then stopped.
“Can I?” she asked.
Wemmbu’s entire heart melted into something useless and warm.
Because of course Flame would ask.
Scary to everyone else.
Soft for one person.
Wemmbu swallowed.
“If you don’t,” she said, “I’ll count it as a forfeit.”
Flame smiled.
Then she kissed her.
It was gentle.
Almost too gentle at first, like Flame was afraid Wemmbu might vanish if she touched her too firmly. Like she was holding a memory and a person at the same time.
Wemmbu made a small sound against her mouth.
Embarrassing.
Unrecoverable.
Worth it.
Flame pulled back a fraction, eyes searching.
Wemmbu grabbed the front of her jacket.
“Nope,” she whispered. “You started this. Commit.”
Flame’s breath caught.
Then she kissed her again.
This time, Wemmbu felt the years between them collapse.
The playground. The swings. The pizza napkin. The backstage almost-apology. The texts they never sent. The rivalry that had always been a language neither of them understood.
Every challenge had been a question.
Do you see me?
Every victory had been a plea.
Stay.
Every loss had been a bruise because losing Flame’s attention had felt too much like losing Flame.
But Flame was here now, warm and real, kissing her like she had finally found the courage to answer.
I see you.
I stayed.
I choose you.
When they broke apart, Wemmbu rested her forehead against Flame’s shoulder because looking directly at her seemed medically unsafe.
Flame’s hand hovered near her back.
Wemmbu huffed. “You can touch me, you disaster.”
Flame’s hand settled carefully between her shoulder blades.
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“Very respectful. Very annoying. Very you.”
Flame laughed softly.
Wemmbu closed her eyes.
For once, she let herself be held without turning it into a joke.
Well.
For seven whole seconds.
Then she said, muffled against Flame’s jacket, “Just so we’re clear, I’m still winning.”
Flame’s hand paused.
“Winning what?”
“This.”
“Us?”
“Yes.”
“How do you win us?”
“By being more emotionally devastating.”
Flame considered. “I confessed first.”
“Cheap opening move.”
“I kissed you first.”
“Bold, but predictable.”
“You hid in my jacket after.”
Wemmbu lifted her head. “Strategic regrouping.”
Flame smiled, warm and wicked in a quiet way that made Wemmbu’s brain short-circuit.
“I can keep going,” Flame said.
Wemmbu narrowed her eyes.
Oh.
Oh, she had created a monster.
“Is that a threat?”
Flame leaned closer, brushing their noses together.
“A promise.”
Wemmbu’s internal narrator threw its papers into the air and resigned.
She kissed Flame again because there was really no other responsible option.
A week later, they went to dinner.
Not breadsticks of hatred.
A real date.
Wemmbu spent two hours pretending she was not nervous and another thirty minutes changing outfits while texting Flame increasingly unhinged updates.
If I die before this date, delete my search history. :Wemmbu
Flame: Why would you die?
Outfit crisis. :Wemmbu
Flame: Wear the jacket with the patches.
You remember my jacket? :Wemmbu
Flame: I remember everything.
Wemmbu stared at that message for a full minute, then threw her phone onto her bed and screamed into a pillow.
Normal behavior.
Perfectly healthy.
The date itself was at a small noodle shop near campus, warm and crowded and glowing with hanging lights.
Flame arrived in the gray hoodie.
Wemmbu nearly turned around and walked into traffic.
“You wore that on purpose,” she accused.
Flame looked down at herself. “What?”
“The hoodie.”
“You like it.”
“I never said that.”
“You stare at me when I wear it.”
“I stare because I’m plotting.”
“Plotting?”
“Your downfall.”
Flame opened the restaurant door for her.
“My downfall wears a gray hoodie?”
“Apparently.”
Dinner was easy.
Terrifyingly easy.
They argued over appetizers, traded bites of noodles, and competed over who could balance chopsticks across their cup longer. Wemmbu won, because Flame sneezed and knocked hers down.
“Sabotage,” Flame said.
“You sneezed.”
“Your victory lacks honor.”
“My victory has dumplings.”
Flame gave her the last dumpling.
Wemmbu stared.
“What are you doing?”
“You like them.”
“You like them too.”
Flame shrugged. “I like giving you things.”
Wemmbu’s heart did something awful and tender.
“Stop,” she said.
Flame immediately looked concerned. “Sorry.”
“No, I mean—” Wemmbu groaned and covered her face. “Stop being so easy to fall for. It’s inconvenient.”
The table went quiet.
Wemmbu lowered her hands.
Flame was staring at her.
“You’re falling for me?” Flame asked softly.
Wemmbu’s instinct was to dodge.
To laugh.
To say something dramatic like unfortunately or against medical advice.
But Flame deserved more than a joke.
And maybe Wemmbu did too.
She took a breath.
“I think I already did,” she said. “A long time ago.”
Flame’s eyes shone.
Wemmbu looked down at her bowl, suddenly shy in a way she despised.
“I didn’t know what it was,” she continued. “Back then. I just knew I wanted you to look at me. I wanted to beat you because then you’d chase me. I wanted you to beat me because then you’d smile. I wanted…” She swallowed. “I wanted your attention so badly I convinced myself it was rivalry because wanting it any other way felt too scary.”
Flame was quiet for a moment.
Then she reached across the table, palm up.
An offer.
Not a demand.
Wemmbu placed her hand in Flame’s.
Flame’s thumb brushed over her knuckles.
“I wanted to be chosen by you,” Flame said. “Even when we were kids.”
Wemmbu’s throat tightened.
“You were,” she whispered.
Flame’s eyes lifted to hers.
“You were always my favorite person to lose to,” Wemmbu said.
Flame laughed, but it came out shaky.
“That’s the most romantic insult I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you. I worked hard on it emotionally.”
“I can tell.”
They stayed like that until their food got cold.
Neither of them cared.
Later, walking back to campus, Flame took her hand again.
It was becoming natural.
That was the dangerous part.
The first time had been lightning. Now it was warmth. A steady fire. Something Wemmbu could lean toward.
They passed the old playground beside the elementary school near campus, empty under the streetlights.
Wemmbu slowed.
Flame noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
“Want to?” Flame asked.
Wemmbu looked at the swings.
Her chest ached.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s dark.”
“There are lights.”
“We are adults.”
“Barely.”
Wemmbu grinned despite herself. “Race you.”
Flame’s eyes sparked.
They ran.
Wemmbu cheated by starting first, which was not cheating so much as innovation.
Flame still beat her.
By half a step.
Unacceptable.
They collapsed onto the swings, breathless and laughing, shoes scraping the dirt.
For a while, they swung in silence.
The chains creaked.
The night air rushed cool against Wemmbu’s face.
Beside her, Flame pumped her legs carefully, as if relearning something she had never quite forgotten.
“You gave me both swings once,” Wemmbu said.
Flame glanced over.
“I remember.”
“You hit me with a dodgeball.”
“You told everyone I murdered you for playground equipment.”
“You did.”
“I was eight.”
“A criminal at eight.”
Flame smiled. “You let me use the other swing.”
“I allowed visitation rights.”
“I thought that meant you forgave me.”
Wemmbu looked at her.
“I did.”
Flame’s swing slowed.
Wemmbu dragged her feet too, until they both came nearly to a stop.
The playground was quiet around them.
“I’m sorry,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s expression changed.
“For what?”
Wemmbu gripped the swing chains.
The words were harder than she expected. They had been sitting inside her for years, sharp-edged and waiting.
“For backstage,” she said. “At the talent show. You were trying to help, and I was scared, and I said I didn’t need you.”
Flame looked down.
Wemmbu’s chest hurt.
“I didn’t mean it,” she said. “I mean, I did in the moment, because I was thirteen and awful and allergic to vulnerability, but I didn’t really mean it. I needed you so much it made me stupid.”
Flame was quiet.
Then she said, “I should have stayed.”
Wemmbu blinked. “What?”
“I left,” Flame said. “I was hurt, and I didn’t know how to talk to you after that. I kept waiting for you to say something first.”
“I kept waiting for you to say something first.”
Flame huffed a small laugh.
“We were idiots.”
“Professional idiots.”
“Competitive idiots.”
“The best idiots in our division.”
Flame looked at her then.
“I’m sorry too,” she said.
Wemmbu wanted to make a joke.
Instead, she reached over, awkwardly, and hooked her pinky around Flame’s.
A childish gesture.
A perfect one.
Flame looked down at their hands and smiled.
“Truce?” Flame asked.
Wemmbu considered.
“No.”
Flame’s smile faltered.
Wemmbu squeezed her pinky.
“Not a truce,” she said. “I don’t want to stop competing with you.”
Understanding dawned slowly on Flame’s face.
Wemmbu’s heart beat hard, but she kept going.
“I just want us to know what we’re really competing for now.”
Flame’s voice was soft. “And what’s that?”
Wemmbu smiled.
“Who can make the other feel more chosen.”
Flame stared at her.
Then she laughed, quiet and overwhelmed, and leaned across the space between the swings to kiss her.
It was awkward.
The chains twisted. Wemmbu’s swing bumped Flame’s knee. Flame laughed against her mouth, which made Wemmbu laugh too, and for a moment they were both ridiculous and off-balance and happy.
Wemmbu thought maybe this was what love was supposed to feel like.
Not perfect.
Not smooth.
Not without fear.
But safe enough to be ridiculous.
Wanted enough to stop performing.
Chosen enough to soften.
When Flame pulled back, her eyes were warm.
“I’m going to win,” she said.
Wemmbu grinned.
“You can try.”
Flame’s smile turned fond.
“I will.”
Wemmbu kicked her swing back into motion, rising into the night air, laughter spilling out of her.
Flame followed.
They swung higher and higher, side by side, no longer fighting for both swings, no longer pretending the game was anything but what it had always been.
A way to stay close.
A way to say look at me.
A way to say I’m here.
And this time, when Wemmbu glanced over, Flame was already looking.
Not because she had won.
Not because Wemmbu had lost.
Just because she wanted to.
Just because she chose to.
Wemmbu’s heart, dramatic traitor that it was, gave up completely.
Fine, she thought, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.
Maybe Flame could win this one.
But only because Wemmbu intended to spend a very long time trying to beat her.