This Isn't a Competition (But I'm Winning)
Chapter 2: One Bed? How Convenient.
Word Count: 1653
Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch.3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch.6
Masterlist
You stare at your open suitcase like it's done something wrong.
Because seriously, how are you supposed to pack for a work trip that might change your whole career...when you also have to fly with them?
You toss in a third blazer, then a fourth. Then you change your mind and replace one with a neutral sweater. It’s practical. It says you’re confident and professional. Definitely not picked because Mac said someone looked good in a similar outfit last week.
The way they’d said it, "That’s a smart look", kept replaying in your head. Like always, their voice was smooth and calm, just stating facts. But it still got to you. Their compliments were strategic and hardly ever aimed at you. And maybe that’s why they stuck with you long after they should’ve faded.
You try not to think about Mac’s smug face when they saw you were on the project team. And it didn’t matter that their jaw tightened a bit when Rina named you both team lead. You noticed. You always do. They have this way of keeping their cool while the tension barely flickers under the surface, like they’ve got fans running just beneath their skin, cooling them down.
Sure, Mac’s competitive. So are you. That’s how it works at Valdivian Systems. But with Mac, it’s different. They get under your skin. Always have.
It wasn’t always this way.
You both started at Valdivian around the same time. Fresh out of school, bright-eyed and full of ambition. At first, you got along fine. Friendly even. You traded playlists and coding shortcuts. Helped each other fix bugs. Got into passionate debates about which sci-fi movie had the best world-building. That one got heated. Skylar had to cut in and change the subject.
There was even one night, after a team happy hour, when you sat next to each other at the bar. Just talking. A little buzzed. Laughing more than you should’ve. You told them stuff you hadn’t said out loud in years. And they listened. That kind of soft, quiet listening that made you feel like every word mattered.
But then came your first-ever DevCon pitch.
Your first big idea. The one you poured weeks of effort into. You walked into the boardroom, ready to present it, but Mac was already there, pitching a version that looked way too much like yours. Slightly different, sure, but it stung. You didn’t speak to them for weeks after. And since then, it’s been like a silent competition. Who could get more praise, finish tasks faster, be the star of every meeting.
You still don’t know if they stole it or if it was a coincidence. They tried to reach out after, but you pushed them away, and maybe you never asked because you didn’t want to know. Maybe you were afraid of what it would mean if it was just a coincidence, if you were always destined to be matched, to overlap in ways that felt too close.
It was easier to be rivals than admit how much you thought about them. Or how your heart beat a little faster when they stood too close. Or how you still sometimes re-read their old slack messages or listen to your old shared playlist when you couldn’t sleep.
Friday morning comes faster than you’d like.
Your ride drops you at the airport just after sunrise. The city is still waking up, all golden light and sleepy buildings. You drag your suitcase toward the glass doors, holding your phone tight, your brain racing with all the things you need to say at the pitch. And trying not to think about how long you’ll be stuck with Mac.
You spot the team near the check-in kiosk. Skylar waves. "Look who finally made it!"
"Barely," you mutter, unlocking your phone to pull up your boarding pass.
Penelope smiles at you. Betty looks like she’s half-asleep, clutching a massive travel pillow. Timothy’s got his headphones in but is slightly glaring at you, tapping his foot as if to scold you for arriving later than agreed on.
And there’s Mac.
Sitting by themselves in their wheelchair, backpack by their feet, tablet glowing in their lap. They look up just as you approach. Calm and annoyingly composed.
"Morning," they say, voice even and cool.
"Let’s just survive this," you reply, tightening the strap on your carry-on.
"Affirmative," they answer, flicking their eyes back to their screen.
You squint. "Do you also have to one-up my vocabulary now?"
"Acknowledged," they respond, the corners of their mouth twitching.
You ignore the flicker of amusement in their eyes.
The group gets through check-in quickly. Security is slow, but uneventful. You remove your shoes, your belt, your laptop, every piece of your identity, then reassemble yourself on the other side.
Now it’s just waiting. You all gather at the gate, scattered in the uncomfortable chairs. You scroll through your notes, already outlining potential responses to questions you might get during the pitch.
Mac is by the window, stylus gliding over their tablet like it’s an extension of their thoughts. Their brow furrows slightly when they focus. You find yourself watching them again. The way they move. The way they sit. The way they seem like they’re made of tension and control, like they’re holding themselves together with code and willpower.
They glance up once and catch you. You look away too quickly.
Skylar plops down next to you with a grin. "This trip’s gonna be fun. Tim is like a cat, though, a light sleeper. Hope we don't bunk together."
"We’re sharing rooms?"
Skylar nods. "Yeah, the hotel’s a little overbooked. Rina said doubles only. It’s fine. We’re all adults."
You grimace.
Soon it’s time to board. Mac heads to the gate first, handling everything with the kind of practiced ease that makes you forget how much effort it probably takes. You follow with the rest of the team.
When you get to your seat, you stop.
17A and 17B.
"No," you whisper.
Mac raises an eyebrow. "Problem?"
"You’re in 17B?"
"Looks like it. Problem?"
You slide into your seat without replying. Mac transfers with barely any assistance, folds up their chair, and places their bag beneath the seat. It’s all so smooth.
They catch you looking.
"I know I’m impressive, but try not to stare."
"I’m imagining ways to make your life hell after I get this promotion."
They smirk. "IF you get that promotion. Now this is what I call corporate bonding."
The flight is long. Too long.
You try not to fall asleep. Or drool. Or let your shoulder lean toward theirs. Mac’s elbow brushes yours once. Just once. You try not to think about it for the next twenty minutes. You peek at the screen they’re working on, charts and slides, some code snippets. You pretend to care about your own notes, but you’re too aware of their presence. The way their scent lingers, something clean and a little grassy. The faint scar on their lip from where it looks like a piercing should belong. The dip of their throat. The tension in their jaw when they’re concentrating.
You hate how much you notice.
The plane jolts during descent. Your hand grips the armrest tighter. You feel Mac’s glance.
"You alright?"
"Fine."
They don’t press, but they look again a few minutes later.
After landing, it’s the usual chaos. Bags, chatter, confusion. Betty talks about tracking down a local café. Penelope wants to run through the pitch rehearsal later. You nod along, half-listening.
Skylar’s the first to say it. "Didn’t Rina mention someone got stuck with a single bed?"
At the front desk, the hotel clerk looks apologetic. "We’re so sorry. Only two doubles were booked instead of three. Someone’s in the queen."
You know what’s coming.
"That room’s for...Mac and you."
You inhale sharply.
Mac raises a brow. "Funny how that worked out."
"You definitely hacked the system."
"If only I had that level of influence."
The elevator ride is silent and tense. The kind of quiet that hums with unsaid things. Mac opens the room door. You step inside after them.
One queen-sized bed. Dead center. Crisp white sheets. Two pillows. It mocks you with its clean symmetry.
Mac wheels in further, scanning the space. "Functional."
You cross your arms. "I call the left side."
They glance at you. "Very well. I suppose that makes me right, as always."
You groan and toss your bag by the dresser. The bathroom is your only escape. You flee inside and brush your teeth like you’re scrubbing away all your frustration. Cold water on your face helps. A little.
When you emerge, Mac is typing on their laptop, the screen glow illuminating their face in soft pulses. They’re focused. Almost serene.
You crawl into bed, staying far to the left.
Neither of you says goodnight.
The typing continues past midnight.
Eventually, you sit up. "Do you ever turn off?"
Mac doesn’t look up. "That would be inefficient."
"You’re going to burn out."
“Unlikely."
You grab a pillow and toss it at them. It hits their shoulder, slides to the floor. They pause. Glance at you.
Your hair is messy, and your casual bedtime clothes show a little more skin than they normally see from you. You’re both a little closer to each other than you initially realized. They feel their brain buffer, and their eyes linger. Just a moment longer than they should. Your breath catches.
The silence stretches. Something delicate is suspended between you.
For a heartbeat, you wonder, really wonder, what it would feel like to close that space. To find out what might happen if you stopped pretending not to care.
But then Mac looks back at their screen, and you turn over to face the wall.
And neither of you sleeps easily.