Almost Siblings

CHAPTER TWO: Winning Doesn’t Feel Like Anything Anymore

Aiden’s POV

The cafeteria is loud in the way it always is, plastic chairs scraping, someone yelling over music leaking from a phone, the smell of fries and overcooked rice hanging in the air.

I’m halfway through my lunch when the announcement comes.

“Attention, final-year students. The results for last term’s tests are now available on the academic noticeboards.”

Someone at the table groans. Leo slaps the table. “If I see my name below tenth, I’m switching schools.”

I don’t react. There’s no rush of excitement, no spike of nerves. There never is. I already know where my name will be. It’s been that way for years, predictable, steady, almost boring.

First place doesn’t surprise me anymore.

It just exists.

When the bell rings, I pack up and head for my next class. The hallway funnels students toward the noticeboard, bodies clustering around the paper like it might change if they stare hard enough.

I slow down. I don’t need to check.

I still do. My name sits at the top, printed neatly in black ink.

Aiden Cole.

For a moment, I just stare at it, not because I’m proud, but because something about it feels… hollow. Like a victory that doesn’t echo.

I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t turn. I don’t need to.

Zara Kingsley’s presence is unmistakable, sharp, and deliberate, like she’s entering a battlefield instead of a hallway. Her friends are with her, but she moves slightly ahead of them, shoulders squared, eyes already calculating.

I step aside before she can ask. She doesn’t thank me. She never does.

By the time we reach the lecture hall, the air between us feels tight, stretched thin by things neither of us will say.

I take my seat a few rows back and watch without meaning to.

Zara sits with Maya, her posture perfect, but her fingers twist slightly against her notebook. Maya is talking, trying too hard. Zara isn’t listening.

That’s new. Zara doesn’t lose focus. Something about that unsettles me.

The lecturer hasn’t arrived yet, and the room hums with restless energy. I hesitate, then stand.

I don’t know why I walk over. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe I just don’t like seeing her look like that, like second place weighs heavier than it should.

“Hey,” I say. She looks up, her eyes meet mine, deep brown, steady, piercing in a way that feels intentional, like she’s trained them to never waver. They don’t flicker with uncertainty or surprise. They assess. Measure. Decide.

Zara Kingsley is beautiful in a way that makes people uncomfortable.

Her hair falls softly around her shoulders, brown and smooth, catching the light like it doesn’t need permission to be noticed. There’s nothing careless about her appearance, yet nothing forced either; every part of her looks like it belongs exactly where it is. Controlled. Precise. Dangerous.

Her face doesn’t beg to be admired. It demands to be taken seriously.

Even now, sitting still, she looks like she’s braced for impact, like the world is always asking something from her and she refuses to give more than necessary. The tension in her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes, it’s concern sharpened into armour.

That’s what people miss about her.

They see the rankings. The confidence. The silence.

They don’t see how much she cares.

And standing there, caught in her gaze, I realise something that settles uncomfortably in my chest: Zara doesn’t hate losing. She fears what losing says about her.

“Second place isn’t bad,” I say. “You’re still top two.”

The words sound wrong the moment they leave my mouth.

Maya laughs nervously. Zara doesn’t. She tells me to watch my back.

I tell her neither of us stays second. It’s not meant to mock her. It’s meant to be honest.

Her reaction hits me harder than I expect, anger flaring fast, controlled but dangerous. She stands, says she doesn’t stay second, and for a moment, I see it: the fire, the fear, the refusal to lose.

Good. That’s why she scares me. That’s why she excites me. Because no one else fights like she does.

The lecturer walks in, cutting the tension cleanly. I return to my seat, my heart steady, my mind anything but.

Winning doesn’t feel like anything anymore. But beating Zara? That still does.

The lecture starts, and the room settles into the familiar rhythm of slides and scribbling pens. I try to focus. I really do. But my attention keeps drifting back to her voice, her threat, the certainty in her eyes when she said she doesn’t stay second.

My phone vibrates softly against my thigh. I shouldn’t check it. I do anyway.

Unknown Girl: Last night was fun. Want to hang out again tonight?

I recognise the number instantly.

Last night flashes through my mind.

A bar. Music too loud. Lights low enough to blur the edges of everything. I went with friends, laughter and drinks swirling around us, pretending the world was small and temporary. She caught my attention with a glance, a smile that didn’t ask for anything, and we ended up leaving together. Simple. Uncomplicated. Temporary. That’s all it was an escape.

Normally, I’d reply without thinking. Normally, this is the part of my life that stays uncomplicated, a private distraction I can control. I lock my phone instead.

Zara’s words echo louder than the message ever could.

I’m taking first place.

The thought of losing to her tightens something in my chest. Not because I need to win but because I refuse to fall behind. Especially not now. Especially not when she’s already planning her move.

When class ends, I don’t head out with the others. I go straight to football practice, push myself harder than necessary, let the burn in my muscles drown out everything else. Sweat, shouts, the thud of cleats against the field it’s the closest thing I have to silence.

By the time practice ends, my body aches and my mind feels clearer.

The library feels like the right choice. I head there after changing, slipping into the familiar quiet, the smell of books and dust and concentration. My eyes scan the room automatically and stop.

Zara.

She’s sitting in the corner she always takes, surrounded by neatly stacked books, notes spread out with surgical precision. Every page is labelled. Color-coded. Perfectly aligned. Watching her study is like watching someone build a fortress, brick by brick, with no intention of letting anything through.

I admire it. I hate that I do.

I choose a seat a few tables away, close enough to see her, far enough to pretend I’m not. My focus wavers. Every time she flips a page, every time she tucks a strand of soft brown hair behind her ear, it pulls my attention like gravity.

Being in the same space as her feels… wrong. Distracting. Like standing too close to a fire, you swear you’re not cold enough to need.

My phone vibrates again. This time, it’s my sister.

Sis: Aiden, can you come pick me up from ballet? Mom just called. She’s stuck at the office.

I sigh quietly, rubbing a hand over my face. Of course.

I pack up without finishing the chapter I was on, casting one last glance toward Zara’s corner. She doesn’t look up. She never does when she’s like this, locked in, unreachable.

I leave before I can change my mind.

By the time I pick my sister up and get home, the day feels heavier than it should. Between football, textbooks, and Zara Kingsley existing too loudly in my head, there’s no room left for anything else.

Not parties. Not distractions. Not tonight. And definitely not losing.

A few hours pass, and by the time I’ve gone through half the chapters I wanted to revise, my brain feels like mush. I close the book and grab the controller. FIFA. Nothing fancy, just something to reset my mind. A few goals, a few losses, a few wins, and the tension in my shoulders starts to ease.

Just as I’m lining up a penalty, the door opens quietly.

“Hey, honey,” my mom says, stepping in. “How’s studying going? You want me to order dinner? I’m too tired to cook tonight.”

“Sure,” I mutter, still focused on the screen.

She sits on the edge of my bed, watching me kick the ball around on screen for a second before speaking again. “By the way, I have something to tell you… I’ll be having someone over for dinner tomorrow. I’d like you to be back a bit earlier from school to help me prepare.”

I freeze, hand hovering over the controller. My stomach tightens.

“Dinner?” I ask cautiously. “Who… I mean… why?”

“It’s someone I’ve been seeing for the past few months,” she says gently. “He’s really nice, Aiden. I want you to meet him.” My chest tightens immediately. Nice? That word doesn’t settle right with me. Not after everything.

Not after my dad cheated on Mom. Not after the last two men she tried seeing also betrayed her. I’ve learned the hard way that being “nice” doesn’t mean anything until proven. My protective instincts flare before I even realise it.

I can’t help the tension in my shoulders, the way my mind spins with questions. Who is he? Does he respect her? Will he hurt her?

Mom notices, of course. She always does. She steps closer, her tone patient. “Aiden… I know you’re worried. I understand. But he’s actually very nice. He really cares about me, and he’s responsible.

I shake my head, trying to keep my voice casual. “Uh… Mom, tomorrow I have… stuff. You know, homework, football practice, library…” Anything to avoid this? “I don’t think I can come early.”

She sighs softly, patient but firm. “Aiden… he really is good to me. And he wants you to meet him. And…” She hesitates, a small smile forming. “He has a daughter. You’ll probably even like her. She’s around your age. Goes to your school.”

My chest tightens. My mind starts racing. A daughter? At my school? Oh no… Please don’t let it be one of the girls I’ve slept with…

The thought hits like a punch to the gut, and I can almost feel my stomach twisting over it. How weird would that be? I, meeting my mom’s boyfriend’s daughter… in the same school. The same class. Someone I might already know. Someone I might… regret knowing.

I freeze for a second, trying to calm my racing thoughts, but it’s no use. My brain is already spinning through worst-case scenarios.

“Wait. Who is she?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral, casual.

“She’s Zara,” my mom says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

My stomach drops.

Zara Kingsley.

I freeze, the controller halfway through a pass, my heart pounding. That’s when it hits me. The timing. The coincidence.

“Zara…” I mutter, not sure whether to laugh or panic. My mind flashes, school, final-year students, rankings, enemies, rivals…

My mom smiles. “Yes, sweetie. That’s why I wanted you to meet both of them. You’ll see. She’s very bright, and she’s… well, I think you two might get along.”

Get along.

My stomach twists. My mind reels. That’s not the word I want to feel right now. My heart sinks, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t know what to do.

I glance at the controller in my hands. The FIFA match is forgotten.

This… this is going to be complicated.