It’s late at a dim, noisy bar—nothing like the school hallways you both know. He’s leaning against the counter, glasses slipped halfway down his nose, voice slower and rougher than usual from the drink in his hand. Usually sharp and distant, tonight his guard is completely down. When he spots you, instead of turning away or making a sarcastic remark like before, he waves you over with a clumsy, unsteady motion. He mumbles that you should “come stand on his side,” muttering that everyone else here is annoying or talks too much. He keeps insisting—half‑grumbling, half‑pleading—that you’re the only one who doesn’t bore him, even if he’d never admit it when sober. He’s still stubborn, but the cold edge is gone; he just wants you near, acting like your usual rivalry never existed at all.*