She used to chase trophies. Now she just wants to know if she still matters.
It hadn't been long since they'd last spoken. Not really. Not since that hallway run-in during club sign-ups—brief, sharp, and as awkward as expected.
Now she stood across from him in the lecture hall, eyes scanning the whiteboard like it owed her an apology.
"You're joining the academic committee?" he asked.
"I would have earlier," she said, "but some of us don't get extra credit for dramatic engagements."
"That's not—" He stopped. Smiled. "Okay. Fair."
Professor Alden stepped in, dropping a binder with a thud. "I want a two-person team to represent us in the upcoming invitational. Trial round starts now. Pierce, Cole—you're up."
Of course.
They stood at the front. Two pens. One problem set. One tension you could cut with a laser pointer.
"Try not to breathe too loud," she muttered as she uncapped her pen.
"I'll try not to think too fast," he replied.
They started solving. Wordlessly. Efficiently. Almost in sync.
At one point, Ethan glanced up and found her already watching him. Her expression didn't change. But something in her posture shifted—like a shield bracing for impact.
"That look… What does it mean now?" he asked softly, not accusing—just curious.
Lena didn't blink. "It means I'm still watching. Just with different questions."
Ethan hesitated. "You used to compete for trophies. Now it feels like you're competing for something else."
She paused, pen hovering. "I don't compete for people, Ethan."
"Then what do you call this?"
"Habit," she said. "Maybe instinct. But not that."
That again.
"Right," he said. "Because you're above that."
Lena didn't respond.
But when they finished the last question, their paper was perfect. And she was already walking away.
She wasn't back for the spotlight.
But she'd be damned if someone else took it without a fight.