Chapter 1: The Duel and the Woods

Ever since I landed in the body of a side character in someone else’s BL romance, fencing has been my lifeline.

I could practically feel the calluses forming on my palms from hours gripping a foil, the sharp scent of floor wax and old gym mats clinging to my skin every night when I dragged myself back to the dorms. Sometimes, I’d pass the vending machines humming in the hallway, the flicker of fluorescent lights making everything feel both too real and not real enough. At Maple Heights Academy, trophy cases lined with dust, banners faded from too many years of pep rallies, and the faint echo of sneakers squeaking down the main hallway. Fencing was my anchor—the only thing that felt real since landing in this bizarre story world.

After years of training, my skills soared—I became the second-best fencer at Maple Heights Academy.

And it wasn’t for lack of trying. My coach started calling me “the dark horse of the Northeast” after I trounced a senior at regionals, and the underclassmen started whispering my name in the locker room. There was always the faint scent of sweat and Gatorade in the air—my comfort zone, in a way.

The best, of course, was my oldest teammate, Caleb Morrison, the main character of the novel.

Caleb had this golden-boy aura about him—think captain of the fencing team, straight-A student, and the kind of guy who’d offer you his umbrella in a thunderstorm. His name was everywhere: on the school website, the trophy cases, the lips of every parent at PTA meetings. I swear, even the janitors at Maple Heights smiled a little wider when Caleb walked by.

I wasn’t willing to accept this, so I challenged him to duel after duel. But every single time, I lost.

The sting of defeat became almost comforting, like an old bruise you poke to remind yourself you’re alive. Every time he disarmed me, he’d flash this half-apologetic, half-proud smile that only made me want to beat him more. Losing to Caleb became a ritual, one that I stubbornly refused to outgrow.

Caleb was the perfect gentleman—refined, upright, endlessly patient. Not only did he guide my technique, he was genuinely considerate toward me.

He’d never snap or roll his eyes when I stumbled. Instead, he’d kneel beside me and offer a hand up, or let out a soft, encouraging laugh that made everyone else relax. He had that Midwest nice—always holding the door, always acting like your mistakes were just another chance to try again.

Whenever I practiced until I was drenched in sweat, he’d carefully wipe my brow and gently urge me to take a break.

Sometimes, he’d even bring me an extra bottle of cold water from the vending machine, saying, “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” like he was my older brother or something. That gentleness, so at odds with his cutthroat skills on the strip, sometimes made my stomach flip for reasons I couldn’t quite name.

Caleb was wonderful. Just... a little odd.

It was the way his gaze lingered a little too long or how he seemed to forget his words when we were alone. He’d shuffle his feet, his hands finding their way to the hem of his shirt as if searching for an excuse to fidget. In a place like Maple Heights, where everyone wore their cool like armor, his awkwardness stood out in a strange, almost charming way.

Every time he saw me, he’d blush, and even when he held my wrist to correct my form, his hands would tremble ever so slightly.

He’d brush a stray hair from my cheek, only to freeze as if he’d touched something electric. I’d catch him stealing glances at me during water breaks, his ears burning bright red. In the Midwest, people don’t exactly wear their hearts on their sleeves, but with Caleb, it was all written on his face if you cared to look.

I didn’t really get it, but I didn’t think much of it either.

To me, it was just another weird detail in a story I never signed up for. I chalked it up to nerves—everyone gets weird around their rival sometimes, right? Besides, who has time for high school drama when you’re busy trying not to get written out of existence?

Until one day, he called me out to the woods behind campus.

It was one of those late autumn afternoons, when the sun sank early and the trees behind the school looked like something out of a coming-of-age movie. The air smelled of wet leaves and cold earth—a reminder that winter was coming.

The grove was dim, but Caleb stood there in a crisp white shirt, hair neatly tied back, his whole figure almost glowing in the dusk.

He looked like a scene from an indie film: moonlight on his shirt, the faintest breeze tugging at the loose ends of his hair. For a second, I almost forgot this was real—or as real as anything in a transmigrated novel could be.

When he saw me, the corners of his lips lifted, his eyes and brows soft with a gentle smile.

He even did a little wave, shy but inviting, like we were co-conspirators sneaking out after curfew. The golden glow of the setting sun caught the edge of his jaw, making him look both impossibly handsome and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

"You’re here."

His voice was low, with a subtle huskiness that was easy to miss.

It sounded different out here—less formal, tinged with something I couldn’t quite place. I realized my own heartbeat was louder than the wind rustling through the branches.

I nodded and walked up to him without a second thought.

My sneakers crunched over damp leaves. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, the memory of an old, awkward run-in with Caleb flickering through my mind. What if this was another one of those moments? My palms went clammy with nerves. Out here, away from the noise of the gym, it was like the whole world had narrowed to just the two of us.

"So, what’s up? Got a new fencing trick for me, or are we just here to freeze our butts off?"

I tried to sound casual, but my voice came out a bit breathless, betraying my anticipation. Fencing had always been our shared language—a safe topic, a way to sidestep whatever weirdness was bubbling beneath the surface.

At this, he froze, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his face.

His eyes darted to the ground, then back up. For a second, it was like watching someone struggle with a confession at prom, the silence stretching thin and awkward between us.

Whatever he was thinking, it made the tips of his ears flush red, and even his pale knuckles seemed to blush with shyness.

He swallowed, jaw tightening like he was bracing for a pop quiz he hadn’t studied for. I’d never seen him this flustered—even during the championship finals, he’d kept his cool.

"Yeah."

He responded softly.

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. For a moment, I wondered if I’d missed a cue, if this was some scene I was supposed to play out by the book.

My eyes lit up with anticipation.

The thought of a new fencing move was almost enough to push aside the nerves. I bounced on the balls of my feet, the way I always did before a match. “Sweet! I’ve been stuck in the same rut forever.”

After all, I’d already drilled the previous fencing forms thousands of times. I couldn’t wait to learn something new.

The repetition had started to wear on me, turning every practice into a grind. Something fresh—a secret technique, a hidden trick—was exactly what I needed to shake things up.

Under my expectant gaze, his cheeks turned even redder.

He seemed to shrink into himself, fingers worrying the hem of his shirt. There was a strange, almost electric tension in the air—as if we were standing on the edge of something neither of us could name.

Then, as if steeling himself under my stare, he reached for his belt.

The gesture was oddly formal, like a knight about to unbuckle his armor before a duel. I watched, uncertain, not wanting to make it weird by asking what he was doing.

Caleb pinched his belt between his fingers and gently tugged.

The metallic click of the buckle was strangely loud in the quiet woods. My breath caught, realizing this wasn’t some new training drill.

His shirt slid off his shoulders, skin flashing pale in the cold dusk, goosebumps racing down his arms.

The sight was so unexpected, so out of place with the chilly air and the earthy scent of autumn, that I froze. It felt like I’d stumbled onto a scene meant for someone else—someone who belonged in his story, not me.

My mind raced, scrambling for an explanation. Was this some weird team ritual? A prank? Or had I just wandered into a deleted scene from the book? None of it made sense. I was stunned. In a flash, I yanked his clothes back up.

Is this some kind of team initiation? Or did I just wander into a deleted scene from the book?

My hands moved on autopilot, panic and instinct colliding. The fabric was cool against my skin as I tugged it up, struggling to cover him before reality caught up to either of us.

"What are you doing?"

I stared at him in disbelief.

My voice came out sharper than I intended, but shock has a way of scrambling your filter. My heart thudded in my chest, adrenaline making my hands shake.

Caleb gathered his clothes around him, looking a little hurt, as if my rejection had genuinely wounded him.

He wrapped his arms across his chest, gaze dropping to his shoes. The vulnerability on his face made me feel like I’d just kicked a puppy or ruined the last act of a school play.

But he forced himself to speak. "Lately, haven’t you been troubled by your training being stuck?"

His voice was so small, so tentative, that I almost missed it. He sounded like he was confessing to a crime, not offering to help with my fencing.

"So?" I was completely lost.

I tried to meet his eyes, but he wouldn’t look at me. My mind spun, searching for any logical connection between fencing and this striptease. It was like reading a script in the wrong language.

What does my plateau have to do with him stripping?

I glanced around, half expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out from behind a tree. Was this some elaborate prank? Or had the plot taken a nosedive into fanfiction territory?

Does he think offering himself up will make my fencing skills skyrocket?

The absurdity of it all almost made me laugh, but Caleb’s sincerity kept me rooted in place. There was no trace of irony in his expression, only a kind of desperate hope.

Caleb lowered his gaze, his dark lashes fluttering.

His voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper. “I just… thought it might help, if we were… you know, closer.”

"So... I thought maybe, you know, if we got closer, it might help you."

The way he said it made my ears go hot. Closer. The word echoed between us, heavy and charged. In every BL novel I’d ever read, this was the moment where sparks flew and the music swelled—but here, it just made me want to crawl out of my skin.

I was thunderstruck.

For a second, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The storylines I’d read—best friends to lovers, rivals to partners—flashed through my mind, all of them more glamorous than this awkward, half-dressed encounter under the trees.

He looked at me with such earnestness that my face went up in flames.

His eyes, wide and hopeful, made it impossible to laugh him off. I could feel my cheeks burning, embarrassment prickling down my neck. I wanted to say something—anything—to break the spell.

The words ‘getting closer’ flashed through my mind like a neon sign.

A thousand plotlines, a hundred love confessions, all tangled together in that phrase. Was this supposed to be my cue? Was I supposed to say yes, to melt into his arms like a proper love interest?

Right, as the main character, he has that special aura.

There’s a reason everyone in this world gravitates toward him. He’s got that star quality, the kind that makes even the smallest gesture feel monumental. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire—hard to look away, even when it burns.

Born with a naturally alluring presence—the ultimate temptation.

It’s in every step, every smile, every accidental touch. I always thought that was just literary fluff, but seeing it up close, it’s impossible to deny.

But this isn’t a benefit meant for cannon fodder side characters like me!

I was supposed to be background noise, not a love interest. The universe had to be playing a cruel joke.

This is supposed to be the team captain’s privilege!

The plot didn’t have room for me in this kind of scene. It felt like I’d crashed someone else’s prom photo.

With that, I spun around, blurted out, "Don’t overthink it," and bolted as fast as I could.

Branches whipped at my jeans as I tore down the path, my words echoing in the empty air, regret and relief tangling in my chest.