RUNNER-UP TO YOU...
K.JH
Chapter 003.
^ all credits to @juhoonic, please DO NOT copy/steal/repost.
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(SUMMARY.) You and Juhoon have spent years competing for first place. Now, one announcement forces you into the worst outcome possible: working together.
You arrive at 3:02PM on purpose. Not exactly late. Just not early. Juhoon is already there, of course.
He’s sitting at one of the long wooden tables near the window, laptop open, sleeves rolled up neatly, hair slightly falling into his eyes like he didn’t bother fixing it after class. He looks up the second you approach.
“You’re late.”
“It’s only been two minutes,” you shoot back as you drop your bag into the chair across from him.
He pushes a printed sheet toward you. “Our transitions,” he says. “They’re weak.”
You scan it. He has colour-coded your speaking segments and left notes in the margins. One reads: (Let her finish this point before adding.) You look up at him slowly, amused. “Did you seriously write a reminder to yourself to not interrupt me?”
He clears his throat, avoiding your gaze. “It’s called self-regulation.”
You stare at him a second longer, before bursting into a quiet laugh that you try very hard to supress.
“You’re really training yourself like a lab subject, huh?”
He narrows his eyes, “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I am. Growth looks good on you.”
He ignores that and leans forward slightly. “Look,” he says more seriously, “when you explain your points, I’ll reinforce the impact, not redirect it.”
You blink. “That simple?”
“Yes.”
“That’s…suspiciously mature.”
He tilts his head. “Would you prefer chaos?”
“Lowkey? It was entertaining…and slightly motivating.”
“It almost got us eliminated.”
“Details.”
He gives you a look. You grin, which somehow doesn’t feel tense. It feels easy.
An hour into studying, something strange happens. You’re not fighting, or trying to resist the urge to correct every word he says. He suggests shortening one of your explanations. You consider it.
“…Okay, yeah. That works,” you admit.
He pauses. “You agree?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He stares at you for a second longer than necessary. “You’re different today.”
“What? I figured we should test this whole ‘not sabotaging each other’ thing.”
“And?”
“And it’s mildly tolerable.”
“Mildly,” he repeats.
“Don’t push it.”
At some point, you get distracted scrolling on your phone while he reviews notes. He glances up. “Are you working?”
“Yes.”
“You’re on Instagram.”
“I’m researching.”
“For what?”
“Confidence.”
He sighs, “Unbelievable. Of all people, you-“
You turn your phone to show him a meme: ‘When you hate someone but they’re lowkey your favourite person to argue with.’
You look at him. He looks at you.
“…That’s not funny.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Y/N.”
“Juhoon.”
He glares at you, before closing his laptop more aggressively than required.
“You’re so easy,” you whisper, sitting back in your chair, victorious.
“Ugh, I regret texting you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Silence.
Later, when the sun starts setting through the tall library windows, you both pack up at the same time.
Your hands brush reaching for the same pen. You both freeze for half a second.
You pull back first.
He clears his throat. “You take it.”
“You bought it.”
“You use it more.”
You stare at him. “…That was almost considerate.”
He looks offended. “I am considerate.”
You grin. “To yourself.”
He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“You’re walking back toward English, right?”
You blink. “…Yes.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
You narrow your eyes. “Why?”
“It’s on my way.”
“It’s not.”
“It can be.”
You stare at him for a long moment. “Juhoon.”
“Yes.”
“You realize rivals don’t do this, right?”
He looks at you calmly. “Maybe we’re not rivals.”
The words hang there. You don’t know what to do with them.
So you default to humour.
“Oh my god,” you gasp dramatically. “Are we becoming… friends?”
He visibly recoils. “Don’t say it like that.”
“You’re embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“You totally are.”
He starts walking. You follow.
And somewhere between the library and your building, you’re not arguing about debate structure.
You’re arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
You’re accusing him of having elite-only music taste.
He’s accusing you of walking too fast like you’re trying to win an Olympic medal.
You bump shoulders on purpose. He bumps back.
It feels less like competition. More like rhythm.
When you reach your building entrance, you stop. He stops too. “…Tomorrow,” he says. “Same time?”
You pretend to think about it. “Maybe.”
He gives you that look again, the one that says he sees through you. “Three o’clock,” he says firmly.
You smile despite yourself.
A few days later, campus starts acting weird.
At first, you don’t notice. You’re too busy walking across the courtyard beside Juhoon, arguing (but not arguing arguing) about whether caffeine dependency should legally count as a personality trait.
“It’s not a personality,” he says flatly.
“It absolutely is. You can tell who drinks iced americanos for the aesthetic versus survival.”
“That’s not a measurable metric.”
“Not everything in life is a measurable metric.”
“It should be.”
You snort.
And that’s when you notice three freshmen openly staring at you like they’ve just witnessed a solar eclipse. One of them whispers. You hear your name. You also hear his. You frown slightly but keep walking.
By lunch, it’s worse.
You’re seated across from him in the cafeteria, same table, same food, same competitive energy; except now you’re casually stealing one of his fries.
He watches you do it. “You have your own.”
“Yours looked crispier."
“Manners much?"
“Stay mad.”
Two tables over, someone drops their spoon. Not by accident.
You glance sideways. They’re staring. Again.
Juhoon follows your gaze. “…Why is everyone looking at us?”
“I don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe we look good today.”
He deadpans. “Highly unlikely.”
You kick his shin under the table.
“You’re right. It’s just me who looks good.”
By evening, your phone is exploding.
Later that week, you’re walking back from prep class. It’s quieter now. Late evening. Most students have already left. Streetlights flicker on as you cross the pathway toward the main building.
There’s a strange awareness in the air. Not tension. Just… something softer.
“You’ve been weird,” you say suddenly.
He glances at you. “In what sense?”
“You don’t immediately disagree with everything I say anymore. Actually, you hardly ever disagree anymore.”
“I never disagreed with everything.”
“You disagreed recreationally.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is. You enjoyed it.”
He’s quiet for a second. “…Maybe.”
You stop walking. He takes two more steps before noticing and turning back toward you.
“Why did we hate each other?” you ask.
His expression shifts slightly. Less guarded. “I didn’t hate you.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“I found you insufferable.”
“That’s worse.”
“But I didn’t hate you.”
He looks at you for a moment longer than usual.
“You always treated everything like a competition,” he says finally. “Every conversation felt like a ranking.”
“That’s because it was,” you reply instinctively.
He tilts his head slightly. “Was it?”
You hesitate.
The night air feels cooler now.
“…You were the only person who could keep up,” you admit quietly. “If I didn’t treat you like competition, I’d have to admit you were…” You trail off.
“Equal?” he supplies.
You grimace. “…Intellectually tolerable.”
He huffs out something dangerously close to a laugh.
“And you,” you continue, “were always so composed. Like you already expected to win.”
“I never expected to win,” he says calmly. “I expected you to.”
That makes you look at him.
“What?”
“You’re intense,” he says simply. “Driven. Annoyingly consistent. It’s difficult to outperform someone who doesn’t get lazy.”
You stare at him.
“…Are you complimenting me?”
“Objectively analysing.”
“You’re bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Being nice.”
He considers that. “You’re intellectually on my level,” he says, more carefully now. “You’re quick. You adapt faster than most people I’ve worked with.”
A pause.
“…You’re also,” he continues reluctantly, “easier to talk to than I expected.”
Your chest does something unfamiliar.
“Wow,” you say lightly, because you cannot let this become too real. “Are we bonding?”
“Don’t make it strange.”
“You’re the one confessing.”
“I am not confessing.”
You grin.
He shakes his head slightly, but there’s no irritation in it.
“I think,” he says after a moment, quieter now, “we mistook being threatened for disliking each other.”
That lands.
You think about every ranking list. Every glance. Every one-mark difference.
“…That’s stupid,” you say softly.
“It is.”
Silence again.
Not hostile. Not competitive. Just shared.
“You’re actually funny,” you admit reluctantly. “In a very dry, mildly concerning way.”
“You’re louder than necessary,” he replies.
“Hey, that wasn’t a compliment.”
“It wasn’t an insult either.”
You walk again, slower this time. Side by side. No one’s trying to get ahead. And when you reach the split in the path where you usually part ways, neither of you immediately turns.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
“Yeah.”
You take a few steps backward before turning fully.
“…Juhoon?”
He looks up.
“You don’t have to act like my rival all the time.”
His expression softens, just slightly.
“…I know.”
And for the first time since this whole thing started, you don’t feel like you’re walking away from an opponent.
You feel like you’re walking away from something dangerously close to a friend.
