Ava pov
If there's one thing I've learned this semester, it's that professors secretly enjoy chaos.
Ours, apparently, thrives on it.
"Alright, class," Professor Daniels announces, clapping his hands. "Your midterm project will be done in pairs. I'll be assigning partners."
A low wave of whispers ripples through the room. I keep my head down, silently begging the universe to spare me from whoever will make my life miserable.
Please, not Axel Theodore.
Anyone but him.
The professor starts reading the names.
"Jenna and Ryan. Claire and Mason. Ava…"
I hold my breath.
"…and Axel."
The sound that leaves my mouth is somewhere between a choke and a dying bird.
Axel, from two rows back, leans back in his chair, arms crossed, wearing that infuriating grin that should be illegal.
"Oh, come on," I mutter under my breath.
Professor Daniels looks up. "Something wrong, Ava?"
I plaster on a smile. "No, sir. Everything's… wonderful."
Axe shoots me a mock salute.
I swear, I feel my soul leave my body.
---
Later that afternoon, I'm sitting across from him in the library, wondering what I did in a past life to deserve this.
He's been tapping his pen for ten minutes straight.
If I ever needed proof that the universe hates me, it's sitting right across from me — tapping his pen like he's auditioning for "Most Annoying Human Alive."
Axel Theodore
The walking definition of arrogance.
We're supposed to be working on our history project, but he's more interested in driving me insane.
"Can you stop that?" I mutter, glaring up from my laptop.
He tilts his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Stop what?"
"The pen. The breathing. Existing, maybe."
He grins, all effortless confidence. "Wow. You really know how to motivate a teammate."
I bite back a groan. "You're not my teammate. You're my punishment."
He leans forward just enough for his voice to drop — low, teasing. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."
I roll my eyes, but it's getting harder to ignore the spark in his tone. "Can we just finish this? I actually care about my grade."
"Relax, overachiever." He slides a folder toward me. "Already handled the research. You can thank me later."
I blink. The pages are perfectly organized, thorough, better than I expected.
He's actually good. Annoyingly good.
"You did all this?"
Axel smirks, like he's been waiting for me to ask. "What, shocked I have a brain?"
"Stunned, actually."
He laughs under his breath — quiet, genuine. It throws me off more than any insult ever could.
I clear my throat. "It's… solid work."
He raises an eyebrow. "Careful, you almost sounded impressed."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Oh, I don't need to," he says, leaning just close enough for the air to shift between us. "You're doing that for me."
I glare, refusing to back down even though my pulse betrays me. "You're impossible."
He smirks again. "And yet, here you are — still stuck with me."
And damn it, he's right.
I go back to typing, pretending not to notice how his shoulder brushes mine every time he reaches for something. Pretending not to feel that spark in the silence.
The worst part?
I'm starting to wonder if I hate him as much as I keep telling myself I do.
Hours later, the library is half-empty.
The overhead lights have dimmed, and the only sound left is the soft clatter of keyboards and the occasional page turning.
We should've been done an hour ago. But Axel is still here — stretched out across from me, sleeves rolled up, smirk intact, like he owns the table and the air around it.
I tell myself I'm staying for the grade.
Not because I'm curious how his hair keeps falling into his eyes when he leans over the laptop. Definitely not that.
"Still awake?" he asks, voice breaking through my thoughts.
"Barely."
He leans forward, eyes flicking to my notes. "Your handwriting's a crime scene."
I glare. "Says the guy who writes like his pen's running from the cops."
He chuckles under his breath, the sound low and unreasonably nice in the quiet. "You're feisty when you're tired."
I ignore the warmth creeping up my neck. "And you're still annoying when you're breathing."
He smirks, tapping his pen once — just to test my patience. "You sure you don't secretly enjoy this?"
"Working with you?" I snort. "Please."
"Not that," he says, voice lowering. "This."
The space between us.
The constant push and pull.
That spark neither of us wants to name.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
He watches me — not the usual mocking look, but something quieter, searching.
And for the first time, I can't read him.
"Axel," I start, meaning to say something sharp — but it comes out softer than I intend.
He blinks once, then leans back, forcing a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Relax, I'm just messing with you. Wouldn't want you thinking I've gone soft."
"Good," I mutter, focusing on the screen again, pretending that my pulse isn't still racing.
Minutes pass. The silence between us feels heavier than before.
Our hands brush when we both reach for the same paper.
Neither of us moves right away.
His fingers are warm — steady — and mine freeze halfway. He doesn't pull back, just glances up with that same unreadable look.
"Guess teamwork's not so bad after all," he murmurs.
I clear my throat, pulling my hand away. "Don't get used to it."
He grins. "No promises."
Axel pov
The clock ticks past midnight, and somehow, we're still there — working, arguing, pretending it's just about the project.
But deep down, I know it's not.
Not anymore.It's past midnight, and the library is dead quiet.
Just the hum of the lights and the scratch of her pen.
Ava's been fighting sleep for the last hour — blinking too long, chin dipping, then snapping up again like she can out-stubborn exhaustion.
Of course she'd try. She's too proud to admit she's tired.
I smirk to myself. "You're going to pass out on that page if you keep pretending you're awake."
"Shut up," she mumbles, not even looking at me.
I shake my head, go back to the laptop, type another line. The silence settles between us — softer now, almost peaceful.
Then, after a few minutes, the typing stops.
I glance up.
She's out.
Head resting on her arms, breathing slow, hair falling forward to hide her face.
For a second, I just… watch.
Not in a creepy way — just trying to make sense of it.
Ava, who never stops talking, never lets anyone win an argument, looks completely different like this.
Quiet.
Still.
Like the fight in her's finally paused.
I should probably wake her up.
Instead I pull off my jacket and drape my jacket over her shoulders, and immediately, I feel my brain locking up. It's just a jacket, I tell myself. Just covering her from the cold. And yet… the way it falls over that short dress, the way she barely reacts, pretending not to notice, drives me insane. I want to look away, but part of me can't. Hating it — hating that she has this effect on me — makes my chest tighten and my jaw tense. Why does she have to be so infuriatingly oblivious while simultaneously making me feel like an idiot for even noticing?
She stirs slightly but doesn't wake. A faint crease smooths from her brow, like even asleep she's realizing the world's finally stopped annoying her for five minutes.
I sigh, leaning back in my chair.
"Unbelievable," I mutter under my breath. "You drive me insane all day and somehow still manage to look like that."
The clock ticks. I finish tidying the notes, closing both our laptops. Every so often, I glance at her again.
I tell myself it's because I don't want her to get locked in.
When the janitor flicks the lights once — the silent closing time warning — I finally reach out and tap her arm gently.
"Ava."
She blinks, confused, then sits up fast. "I— I wasn't sleeping."
"Sure," I say, lips curving. "You were just testing gravity with your face."
She narrows her eyes. "You're hilarious."
"I try."
I stand, sliding my hands into my pockets. "Come on. I'll walk you back before they lock the dorms."
She hesitates, like she wants to argue, then sighs and nods.
When she moves, my jacket slips off her shoulders. She catches it, holds it out.
"You left this."
I shrug, taking it. "Consider it a loan. You earned it after surviving a night with me."
Her lips twitch — the smallest hint of a smile — and for a split second, I almost forget she's supposed to hate me.
As we step outside, the air's cool, and she walks just close enough that our arms almost brush.
Almost.
I don't say anything. Neither does she.
But the quiet feels different now.
And damn it, I already know — I'm in trouble.
We're walking back to her dorm, the campus quiet under the silver glow of the streetlights.
The jacket is still draped over her shoulders — the one thing keeping me from losing my mind every time I glance at her.
Then she stops abruptly.
"Wait," she says, pointing toward a small convenience store lit up at the corner. "I want ice cream."
I blink. "Ice cream… now?" just how unpredictable can she be.
She grins like she's won already and disappears inside. I huff, crossing my arms, trying not to think about how ridiculous she looks bundled in my jacket.
A few minutes later, she's back, holding two cones. She hands me one.
"Here. Don't tell me you don't like chocolate."
I freeze. "I said—"
Too late. She's holding it out, smirking. I snatch it before she can react.
"Hey! That's mine!" she protests.
"Not eating ice cream in winter is a crime. I'm enforcing the law," I declare, taking a large bite despite the cold. It's insane how good it tastes. I glare at her. "And… fine. You can have the rest."
She laughs, and of course, it's that laugh — low and teasing, like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.
We keep walking, the cold mixing with chocolate sweetness. Somehow, the ice cream makes the night feel lighter, and I catch myself stealing glances at her more than I want to admit.
"Thanks," I mutter between bites.
"For what?"
"For this… and for dragging me into idiocy."
She smirks. "Anytime."
And somehow, I know she means it.We're walking back to her dorm, the night cold enough to bite through the jacket I draped over her shoulders. The chocolate ice cream is halfway gone, melting faster than I care to admit, when a bunch of guys steps out from the shadows.
"Hey there, little lady, where you running off to all alone?" one of them sneers, stepping forward.
My stomach knots. I've dealt with arrogant people before, but this? This is a whole new level of reckless. Ava stiffens beside me, and I catch the faint shift of unease in her eyes.
I don't think. My hand shoots out, palm flat in front of her — instinct, protectiveness, a warning all at once.
"Back off," I growl. My voice isn't casual. It's low, dangerous, carrying a promise I don't bother to explain.
The leader laughs, a sharp, ugly sound. "Or what, tough guy?"
I step closer. "Or you'll find out."
One of them smirks, trying to edge past me toward her. I shove him hard — enough to make him stumble backward. Another tries to circle around, and I swing my arm in a wide arc, keeping Ava completely shielded.
She flinches, clearly startled, but I catch her hand mid-move. "Don't move," I hiss. My pulse is racing, not from fear — from how close she is, from adrenaline, from everything.
"Relax, princess," one of them mocks. "You got a bodyguard?"
I grit my teeth. "Yeah, and he's about to ruin your night."
A shove from the largest guy and it's on. Fists, elbows, scrambling — I don't hold back. Every punch, every shove is fueled by anger I didn't know I had. I'm not just protecting her; I'm furious anyone dared even look at her like that.
Ava gasps behind me. "Axel!"
"Stay back!" I bark, chest heaving, as I push the last guy against a wall.
He's bigger than me, but not enough. One sharp twist, a shove to his side, and he's staggering. The others hesitate, sensing I'm not bluffing.
"Go on," I snap. "Before I make sure you regret it."
The tension hangs thick for a beat. Then, like rats sensing danger, they scatter into the dark.
I drop into a crouch for a second, steadying my breath. My hands shake — from adrenaline, anger, and the sick little thrill of just barely controlling myself.
Ava steps closer, careful, still under my jacket. She looks at me with wide eyes, lips parted, a flicker of something I can't quite read — awe? Fear? Relief? Maybe all three.
"You… you okay?" I manage, voice rougher than I intended.
She swallows, nods, but her hand hesitates near mine. "I… yeah. Thanks. That was—"
"Crazy," I finish for her. "Ridiculous. And don't tell me you're going to get used to it."
She lets out a small, breathless laugh. "I—no, definitely not. You're insane."
I can't help the corner of my mouth twitching. "Damn right I am. And you? Lucky you've got me tonight."
She rolls her eyes, but there's a spark in her gaze that makes me want to shake off every ounce of pride and just… keep her safe, no matter what.
We start walking again, slower this time, the night heavy with unspoken tension. My arm brushes hers occasionally as I make sure she's steady on the uneven pavement, and I swear, every little movement sends my pulse into overdrive.
I glance at her, jacket draped just right, hair falling into her eyes, and mutter under my breath: "Why does she have to make me feel. The adrenaline still pulses through me, my fists tingling, my chest heaving.
Then I feel it — a sharp sting along my cheek.
I glance at my reflection in a nearby window and freeze. Blood streaks down my face from a shallow cut, glinting under the streetlights.
Her eyes snap to me. "Axel! Your face!"
"Relax," I mutter, though I can feel the throb with every heartbeat. "It's nothing."
"No," she snaps, grabbing my wrist. Her grip is firm, refusing to let me brush it off. "You are not cleaning that yourself."
Before I can argue, she's yanking my jacket off — the one I just draped over her shoulders — and kneeling in front of me. She pulls a small first-aid kit from her bag with practiced hands. My pulse quickens for reasons I don't want to admit.
"Sit," she orders. Her tone has an edge to it — part anger, part worry — and somehow it makes my chest tighten.
I slump against the wall, trying to act casual. She leans close, her hands brushing my jaw as she dabs antiseptic along the cut.
"You're reckless," she mutters. Her voice is low, urgent. "You could've gotten hurt worse."
"Someone had to make sure you weren't bothered," I reply, trying to keep the teasing in my voice, though it's harder than I thought.
Her hands freeze on mine, lingering just slightly longer than necessary as she presses the bandage to my cheek. "You are—impossible," she mutters, her eyes sharp and flustered at the same time.
I let out a short, humorless laugh, leaning just enough toward her that our faces are inches apart. "And yet… you're still fussing over me."
Her breath hitches. She straightens abruptly, a faint flush creeping over her cheeks, and I notice how close she still is — too close for comfort, too close for reason.
"I'm not fussing," she says, though her voice wavers. "I'm… just making sure you don't die."
"Right," I murmur, letting my gaze drift over her. "You, the little bundle of stubborn responsibility."
She huffs, looking away but not moving. "You were stupid. That's all."
I grin despite the cut, leaning slightly toward her again. "And yet… you cared enough to patch me up. Admit it."
Her fingers brush mine again as she adjusts the bandage, and I feel a jolt that has nothing to do with the fight. She looks at me, eyes wide, a flicker of something dangerous — tension, curiosity, maybe even desire — and my chest tightens.
We sit like that, suspended between words unspoken, breaths uneven, every small movement charged. The night hums around us, the city quiet, and I can feel the air between us electric — every inch of space between us screaming that nothing here is simple.
Finally, she straightens, brushing off her knees, but her gaze lingers. "There. All done. Move before someone else tries to test me."
I grin, blood dripping slightly, leaning closer than necessary, daring her to react. "Don't act like you didn't enjoy being in charge for once."
Her lips twitch, and I catch that fleeting smirk, sharp and teasing, but her eyes don't lie — she's as aware of the tension between us as I am.
And damn it, I can't tell if I want to back off… or lean in.