Over the next couple weeks, they met up regularly. Mondays. Wednesdays. Fridays.
She showed up with binders; he showed up with iced coffee and too many opinions.
They argued—of course. About word choices. About tone. About whether it was okay to make the audience laugh during rebuttals. (It wasn't. He disagreed.)
But sometimes, their conversations veered into strange places.
Like the time they were editing speeches and she asked why he never joined clubs.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I get bored easily."
She pressed. "So you don't care about your future?"
He didn't look at her. "I guess it's hard to care when everything feels like a checklist you didn't make."
She was quiet for a second. "I like lists."
He smiled. "I know."
Sometimes he'd ask about her stress—how she managed five AP classes and tutoring and still seemed composed.
She'd shrug. "I plan everything. It's either that or spiral."
"Ever try spiraling?" he asked, only half-joking.
She smiled. "I think you're already covering that part for both of us."
But things weren't all banter.
Some moments felt… different.
Like when she caught him actually studying her outline late one night and saw how focused he looked. Like he really wanted to understand.
Like when he brought her a pack of sticky notes, her favorite kind, because he "saw them at the store and thought they looked like her personality: square, but bright."
And one rainy Friday, when he held the library door open longer than usual and said softly, "You know, for someone who says she hates me, you're awfully patient."
She didn't answer.
Not because she didn't have anything to say.
But because maybe he was right.