"Partner up."
Two words that should've meant nothing. But the second they left Mr. Collins' mouth, I knew I was doomed.
We were barely five minutes into English class when he dropped the bomb — a two-week project analyzing tragic love stories in literature. Partner work. Of course.
Everyone around me immediately shifted, whispering and locking eyes with their besties or crushes. I sat perfectly still, hoping someone would volunteer to be stuck with the new girl.
Then I heard it.
"Cross and Carter. You're together."
Heads turned.
Even the back of my neck burned as Jace slowly looked up from his notebook. His eyes locked with mine across the classroom. No reaction. No smirk. Just… silence.
Of course. Of all people.
After class, I waited by the door while he took his time packing up. When he finally walked past, I fell into step beside him.
"We should probably figure out when to meet for the project," I said.
He kept walking. "You could've asked to switch."
"I could've," I said, "but I didn't."
He stopped then. Turned toward me with that unreadable expression he wore like armor.
"You don't know what you're getting into," he said quietly.
"Maybe I don't care."
His jaw tightened. "You should."
Something about his voice wasn't just cold — it was tired. Like he'd been carrying a weight for too long.
I crossed my arms. "Look, you don't have to like me. We just have to read a book and write about it. You think you can handle that without being a jerk?"
That got him.
His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile — or maybe smirk — but didn't let himself.
"Fine," he said. "Library. After school. Today."
And just like that, he walked off again.
That afternoon, we sat across from each other at a table in the school library. A copy of Romeo and Juliet lay unopened between us.
"Classic tragic love story," I said, flipping it open. "Doomed from the start. Two people from opposite worlds."
"Sounds familiar," he muttered.
I glanced up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he picked up the book and began reading, like I wasn't even there. I rolled my eyes and started taking notes, trying to focus. But it was hard — his presence pulled at me, quiet but heavy, like a storm waiting to break.
After a few minutes of silence, he spoke again.
"You don't ask a lot of questions."
I looked up, surprised. "Should I?"
"Most people do. They want to know about… the rumors. The past. The suspension. What happened to my family."
I held his gaze. "I figure if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."
His eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe. Or something else. Something softer.
Then he said, "You're different."
And for the first time since we met…
I wasn't so sure I wanted to stay away anymore.