Olivia
The debate was my arena. Public speaking, policy arguments, structured rebuttals—this was where my years of preparation were meant to shine. The auditorium buzzed with a much larger crowd than my announcement had drawn. Ethan Brooks, it turned out, was a spectacle. And everyone loves a spectacle.
Mia squeezed my arm backstage. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad."
"I'm fine," I said, though my stomach was a knot of anxiety. "I'm prepared. My talking points are solid. I have data."
"This isn't a board meeting, Liv. It's a performance. He knows that. You need to connect with them, not just lecture them."
I knew she was right, but 'connecting' felt vague and unquantifiable. Data was real. Policy was tangible. I smoothed down my navy-blue dress—a carefully chosen outfit that screamed 'competent and trustworthy'—and walked onto the stage.
Ethan was already there, leaning against his podium as if he were waiting for a bus. He wasn't in a suit, of course. He wore dark jeans, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and that infuriatingly charming smile. He looked less like a presidential candidate and more like the lead in a romantic comedy. The crowd, especially the female half, was eating it up.
He caught my eye as I took my place and gave me a slow, deliberate wink. A hot flush of anger rose up my neck. He was trying to throw me off. I ignored him, arranging my notecards on the podium, a fortress of facts to shield me from his charisma.
The moderator, a journalism professor named Dr. Albright, began the debate. The first few questions were softballs: campus life, dining hall food, parking. I gave well-reasoned, practical answers. Ethan gave witty one-liners. I talked about implementing a new feedback system for the campus food provider. He joked about lobbying for a taco truck on every corner.
I could feel the crowd's energy gravitating towards him. My frustration grew with every round of laughter he elicited. This wasn't a debate; it was a stand-up comedy routine.
Then came the question I'd been waiting for: the student budget. This was my territory.
"The student activities fund has been operating at a deficit for two years," I began, my voice ringing with authority. "I have a three-point plan to not only balance the budget but to create a surplus we can reinvest. First, we renegotiate the contracts with our external vendors…"
I was in my element, citing figures, outlining strategies. I could see the audience's attention starting to drift. Their eyes were glazing over. In a moment of desperation, I looked up from my cards and tried to follow Mia's advice.
"It's not just about numbers," I said, trying to inject some passion into my voice. "It's about ensuring that every student group, from the robotics club to the Shakespeare society, has the resources it needs to thrive."
Ethan listened, his head cocked to the side. When it was his turn, he didn't even glance at his notes.
"Olivia's right. It's not about numbers," he said, his voice dropping a little, becoming more serious. "It's about value. And for the last two years, you haven't been getting it. You've been paying exorbitant fees for concerts no one wants to go to and events that are poorly promoted. You know why? Because the people in charge are out of touch."
He looked directly at me. It felt like a punch to the gut. I was one of those people. I was the treasurer.
"I don't have a three-point plan," he continued, turning back to the crowd. "I have a simple promise: I will put the money back in your hands. We'll create a student-led commission to decide where the big bucks go. You want a music festival with indie bands instead of a washed-up 90s rocker? You got it. You want a bigger budget for the e-sports team? Let's make it happen. I trust you to know what you want more than a committee of administrators does."
The auditorium erupted in applause. It was a brilliant move—populist, empowering, and completely devoid of any practical detail. He was selling a dream, while I was selling a balanced budget.
My composure began to fray. In the rebuttal period, I went on the attack. "A 'student-led commission' is not a plan, it's a recipe for chaos. It's easy to make promises you can't keep, Ethan. It's harder to do the actual work."
"Is it?" he shot back, his smile gone, replaced by a sharp intensity. "Is it harder than overseeing a budget that's bleeding money? You're the treasurer, Olivia. That deficit happened on your watch."
My face burned. He'd gone there. It was a low blow; the deficit was due to university-wide cuts, not my mismanagement, but the nuance was lost on the crowd.
"That's an unfair oversimplification!" I retorted, my voice rising. "You're deliberately misleading…"
Suddenly, a loud feedback screech ripped through the auditorium's sound system. Everyone winced. I stumbled back from my podium, disoriented by the noise. In my surprise, my heel caught on the edge of the riser, and for a horrifying, slow-motion second, I was falling.
I braced for the impact, for the humiliation of collapsing in front of the entire student body. But it never came.
An arm shot out and circled my waist, pulling me back from the brink. I landed flush against a solid, warm chest. The scent of sandalwood and something uniquely Ethan filled my senses. I looked up, stunned, into his blue-green eyes, which were wide with a concern that looked shockingly genuine.
He was holding me. His hand was firm on my back, steadying me. The entire auditorium was silent, watching us. We were frozen for a heartbeat, locked in an unexpected, intimate embrace on the stage of our political battlefield.
"You okay?" he murmured, his voice low, for my ears only.
I could only nod, my throat suddenly dry. My hands were pressed against his chest, and I could feel his heart beating, a steady, strong rhythm beneath my palms.
He let me go, stepping back slowly. The spell was broken. A smattering of confused applause started and then grew, mixed with whistles and catcalls. The debate was over. The policy arguments were forgotten. All anyone would remember was this moment.
The video, of course, went viral on campus within the hour. It was clipped, meme-d, and set to romantic music. The headline on the student newspaper's blog read: "Sparks Fly at Presidential Debate—And We Don't Mean Policy."
I had walked into that auditorium to win an argument. Instead, I had stumbled, literally, into the arms of my enemy. And in doing so, I had lost control of the one thing I valued most: the narrative. My perfectly planned campaign had just been hijacked by a moment of unplanned, undeniable chemistry.