Monday morning found me barging into Dr. Martinez’s office like some kind of academic terrorist with a three-page manifesto.
“Professor, we need to talk.”
She didn’t even look up from her pretentious leather gradebook. “Ah, Miss Alden. Right on schedule.”
“Schedule?” My voice pitched higher. “This partnership is a goddamn disaster waiting to happen.”
That got her attention. Wire-rim glasses sliding down her nose, smile spreading like she’d just discovered oil. “Language, Miss Alden.”
“I’m serious.” I slammed my complaint on her desk. “Grayson West is—”
“Challenging?”
“A walking lawsuit. This violates like fourteen academic policies—”
“Such as?”
“Conflict of interest, potential harassment, basic human decency—”
She chuckled. Actually chuckled. “You think Mr. West intends to harass you?”
“I think he intends to make my life hell for sport.”
“Iron sharpens iron.”
I stared at her. “You planned this.”
“I believe mutual engagement yields fascinating results.”
“Mutual engagement?” My voice cracked. “I’m trying to graduate summa cum laude, not star in your twisted social experiment.”
“The assignment stands.” She returned to her gradebook like I’d already evaporated. “I suspect you’ll find the experience… illuminating.”
Left her office ready to commit academic arson. Instead, speed-walked toward inevitable doom, clutching my books like body armor.
Of course, Grayson was already posted outside Ethics, lounging against lockers like they’d been personally installed for his convenience. Shirt untucked, tie practically nonexistent, that criminal smirk superglued to his face.
“Seeking political asylum already?”
I didn’t slow down. “I’d rather dissect Kafka with safety scissors.”
He fell into step beside me. “Kinky. We could explore some Metamorphosis themes. Transformation, identity crisis, creative bondage—”
Heat exploded up my neck. “You’re genuinely disgusting.”
“You’re blushing.”
Stopped dead. Spun around. Pulse hammering my eardrums. “Listen carefully, West. This isn’t entertainment. I’m here to excel academically, not provide your personal comedy show.”
He stepped closer—close enough that his cologne hit like a physical force. Some expensive, dangerous shit that scrambled my brain chemistry.
“Weird. Same objective here.”
Eye contact locked. For exactly one heartbeat, thought he might drop the act. Then he winked and strolled ahead.
“Asshole,” I muttered.
“Heard that,” he called back.
Library. I chose the most antisocial table available—fluorescent hell and plastic chairs, hoping to murder whatever electric bullshit followed us around.
Sat exactly three feet apart. Could still feel heat radiating from his general existence.
I laid out my arsenal: laptop, color-coded notebooks, topic list perfected over two hours of obsessive planning. Slid it across without eye contact.
He completely ignored it.
“So, choice,” he said, voice dangerously casual. “Specifically how some people perform virtue for Instagram likes. Curated innocence—very marketable.”
I looked up slowly. Jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth. “Others perform intellectual depth to hide they’ve never progressed past SparkNotes.”
He grinned—actually grinned—head tilting like I was a puzzle worth solving. “Think I’m faking intelligence?”
“Think you’re smart enough to recognize when you’re performing. And when you’re compensating.”
Something flickered across his expression. Surprise, maybe irritation. “Compensating for what?”
“You tell me.”
Silence stretched. He leaned back, hands behind his head, studying me like I was literature he couldn’t quite interpret.
“I like angry you,” he murmured. “Sharp. Actually alive instead of posed.”
“This is my only setting around you.”
“Shame. Was hoping for confessions.”
I slammed my pen down. Nearby tables turned to stare. “If you’re planning to waste—”
“Waste time?” He leaned forward. “Most entertainment I’ve had since sophomore year.”
My hands were shaking. Visible, embarrassing tremors. “Entertainment isn’t the objective.”
“Makes everything else more palatable though.”
Stood up, gathering supplies. He rose slower—predatory grace that made my skin electric.
“Where you going?”
“Anywhere you’re not.”
He circled the table. Suddenly right there, fingers brushing mine while retrieving my notebook.
My breath caught. Shit. Actual shit.
Held it longer than necessary, thumb grazing my knuckles. When I looked up, his face was inches away.
“You dropped this.”
“I didn’t drop anything.”
“No?” His voice dropped to whisper territory. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
I yanked the notebook back like he’d electrocuted me. “Caffeine overdose.”
“Right.” That smirk returned. “Careful, Alden. I specialize in playing with fire.”
“Then maybe invest in burn cream.”
His laugh followed me out.
That night, staring at my ceiling, I couldn’t stop replaying his fingers against mine. The way his voice dropped. How close his face had been.
This is going to absolutely destroy me.
Rolled over, punched my pillow, tried to forget the way he’d looked at me like he could see straight through every defense I’d ever built.
My phone buzzed. Text from unknown number.
Looking forward to tomorrow’s study session. Try not to flee this time. – Your favorite academic partner.
