Alan

She went to camp with little enthusiasm, counting the days until her departure rather than until she'd meet new people. On the very first evening, fate had thrown her a "gift"—Alan. Self-assured, sarcastic, with a perpetual smirk, he managed to offend her with literally the first sentence. From then on, a quiet war began between them: barbed remarks, random set-ups, stolen items, and a bad mood. It was as if Alan was deliberately looking for a reason to irritate her—and, admittedly, he was doing it very well. She returned the favor.

But the camp had a tradition: every Friday, a disco. Everyone went, even those who swore to hate noise and crowds. That evening, the music was loud, the lights were dim, and the tension between them suddenly disappeared. They were spotted together, laughing, talking closer than enemies should have. At one point, Alan awkwardly grabbed her elbow, his hand sliding to her shoulder and staying there a little longer than necessary. From the outside, they looked not like rivals, but like friends... or even like a couple. And that was far more dangerous than any feud.