He starts at the top. Names I don't care about. People I don't see. I check my phone again. Nothing new. Just the silence that feels like a precursor to a storm.
"Gio Rossi," the professor says.
My head snaps up. The room feels suddenly smaller.
"And Zoë Barnes."
The name hangs in the air. A murmur goes through the lecture hall, a ripple of whispers and glances. They know. They all know. Rossi and Barnes. The gossip blog headlines are fresh in their minds. My eyes sweep the room, hunting through the sea of heads until I find him. Three rows up, off to the left. He's already looking at me. His expression is unreadable, a mask of calm indifference, but his posture is rigid. He doesn't look away. He doesn't flinch.
The professor keeps reading, but the sound is just static now. This is a sentence. We are now legally obligated by the university to spend hours together. To work. To collaborate. Every study session, every shared document, every late-night library meeting is now a minefield. It's a perfect, long-term source of simmering tension, forced upon us by the very institution I'm currently trying to survive. I watch him for a second longer. He doesn't break eye contact. It's a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the walls are closing in.
"Alright, that's the list," the professor says, clapping his hands together. "Find your partner. Use the rest of the class to outline your project parameters. Exchange numbers. Get a plan in place. The first draft is due Friday."
The room erupts into a clamor of scraping chairs and shifting bodies. People move around me, a blur of motion and noise, but I'm frozen. I see him stand. He doesn't hesitate. He moves with an unnerving economy, his path a straight line toward my seat.He doesn't navigate the crowd; the crowd parts for him. He stops beside my desk, his shadow falling over my notebook. The scent of him—cold air, clean soap, and something distinctly male—invades my space.
"Barnes," he says. His voice is low, a rough vibration that settles in my bones.
My gaze stays down. I start gathering my things, shoving my pen and notebook into my bag with sharp, aggressive movements. "Rossi."
"We need a plan." He doesn't sit. He looms, a tactic designed to assert dominance. It's a rookie mistake. I'm not intimidated by height.
"I'm aware of the syllabus," I say, zipping my bag with a vicious pull. "I'll read it."
"That's not a plan," he counters, his tone flat. "That's compliance. I need a strategy. When are you free?"
I finally look up, forcing my gaze to meet his. His eyes are dark, calculating. He's asking about my schedule. He's mapping my availability, cataloging my weak points. "My schedule is none of your concern."
"It is now," he says, leaning in just enough to drop his voice. "Forty percent of our grade. I don't fail. And I'm not about to let you be the reason I start."
The sheer arrogance of it makes me laugh, a short, sharp sound that's all steel. "Let me? You think you have a say in whether I fail or not?"
"I have a say in whether we fail," he corrects, his jaw tightening. "So I'll ask again. When are you free?"
Standing, I sling my bag over my shoulder. The movement forces him to take a step back, and I reclaim my inch of territory. "I'll text you."
His eyes narrow. "You don't have my number."
"I'll get it," I say, and turn to leave.
His hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around my bicep. The grip is firm, not bruising, but absolute. A lock.
"No. We'll do it now."
I stop. My body stays exactly where it is. Slowly, I turn my head, my gaze dropping to his hand on my arm before rising back to his face. My voice is dangerously quiet. "Take your hand off me."
For a second, he doesn't move. The challenge hangs between us, a live wire. Then, his fingers loosen, and he lets go. He doesn't apologize. He just shoves his own hands into his pockets, a clear sign he's reining in a more aggressive impulse.
"Fine," he grits out. "You'll get my number. But we're meeting tomorrow. Library. Seven p.m. Don't be late."
"Or what?" I ask, the question a blade. "You'll mark me absent?"
A flicker of something—respect, maybe, or annoyance—crosses his face. "Don't test me, Zoë."
"The feeling is mutual, Gio," I say, and walk away. I don't look back, but I can feel his gaze on me, a physical weight until I'm out of the room.
My phone buzzes as I hit the main quad. An unknown number. I don't have to guess.
Library. My dorm. 7 p.m. Your choice.
