Adrian
I've built my life around precision. Numbers aligned, notes categorized, my entire existence polished into control. Which is why the universe had to mock me by sending her crashing into my world with all the elegance of a storm.
It happened in seconds—too quick for anyone else to notice, but slow enough that I memorized every detail.
The library was silent, the kind of silence where you could hear pages breathe. My notes—meticulously organized, flawless—spread across the table. Weeks of calculations, theories, scribbles only a mind like mine could decipher.
Then she came.
Head down, rushing, clumsy in a way that made my jaw tighten. A single slip of her hand, and the paper cup tilted. Hot coffee cascaded over my notes like liquid fire.
My notes.
"Oh my God—I'm so sorry!" she gasped, dropping to her knees with napkins, blotting helplessly at the spreading brown stains. Her wide eyes lifted to mine, frantic, innocent, and far too bright.
The world shifted in that moment.
Most people would've seen a girl making a mistake.
I saw an enemy. A spark. A crack in my controlled universe.
"You've ruined it," I said flatly, my voice cold enough to freeze the steam still rising from the paper.
Her lips parted. "I— I didn't mean—"
"Of course you didn't." I leaned back in my chair, watching her fumble, her soft hands brushing my work as if she had any right to touch it. "Intentions don't matter when the result is disaster."
Her expression flickered—shame, then defiance. And there it was: the spark. The fight. She wasn't going to let me crush her like everyone else here.
"I said I was sorry," she snapped, standing now, coffee-splattered napkins clenched in her fist.
Sorry. As if that erased the damage. As if an apology could glue the torn edges of my perfection back together.
"Do you even know what you've destroyed?" I asked, standing too. I was taller, sharper, stronger—but she didn't shrink back. She looked right at me, eyes flashing, and for the first time in years, I felt something pierce the icy wall I'd built.
"No," she said evenly. "But maybe you should keep your precious notes out of the danger zone."
Defiance. From her.
I should've hated her instantly. And I did. At least, that's what I told myself as my fingers itched to grab her chin, to hold her still, to study her like she was a puzzle only I could solve.
Instead, I smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
"Careful, sweetheart. You've just declared war."
Her breath caught, but she lifted her chin. Brave. Stupid. Perfect.
And in that instant, I knew two things:
1. She was going to regret ever walking into my life.
2. I was never letting her go.
And then she scoffed. Scoffed. Tossed the ruined napkins onto the table like my entire life's work was nothing, spun on her heel, and walked away.
I watched her cross the room, slipping effortlessly into the orbit of her friends. She laughed at something one of them said, carefree, as if she hadn't just detonated a bomb in my universe.
My jaw ached from the force of my teeth grinding.
That girl. That creature. She thought she could walk away from me.
She had no idea.
---
Evelyn
It was coffee. Just coffee.
Yes, it had spilled all over his mountain of notes, but honestly—who takes up half the library with papers like some egotistical professor?
Adrian Blackwood. That's who.
I'd known of him, of course. Everyone did. The school's golden genius with a brain full of formulas and an ego too large to fit through the door. I'd seen him around, always sitting alone, looking untouchable, as if the rest of us were ants crawling beneath his shoes.
So when my clumsy hands betrayed me and coffee splashed across his perfect pages, I'd braced for annoyance. Maybe even a sarcastic comment.
But his eyes… those eyes had burned me alive.
He didn't just glare; he looked at me like I'd committed a crime against him personally. Like I'd cracked open his chest and stolen something I had no right to touch.
I apologized—twice—but it wasn't enough for Adrian Blackwood. Nothing would be. He wanted me to bleed for the mistake.
So yes, I scoffed. I couldn't help it. Because if I didn't laugh, I might've screamed.
And as I walked to my friends, their voices pulling me back into the rhythm of normal life, I made myself a promise.
I wasn't going to let Adrian Blackwood intimidate me.
Not in the library.
Not in the classroom.
Not anywhere.
Still… my fingers tingled, remembering the way his stare had pinned me in place. Cold. Possessive. Hungry.
I shook it off. It was just coffee. Just Adrian Blackwood.
And God help me, I hoped I never had to see him again.
******
By the time classes ended, the entire coffee fiasco had almost slipped from my mind. Almost. My friends teased me about it at lunch—"Nice move, Eve, maybe he'll sue you for damages"—and I laughed it off, pretending I didn't care.
But walking home alone, the evening air crisp around me, I couldn't shake the image of his stare. The way he'd looked at me like I wasn't a person, just a problem to solve… or destroy.
I tugged my bag higher on my shoulder and quickened my steps.
And then I saw him.
Leaning against the lamppost at the corner, dark shirt rolled up at the sleeves, eyes locked on me like he'd been waiting all along.
My stomach dropped.
No. Impossible. He wouldn't—
But he pushed off the post and walked toward me, slow, deliberate, like a predator stretching its claws.
"What do you want?" I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.
He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I could smell clean soap and the faint tang of ink. His smile wasn't kind. "You walk fast, Hart. Almost like you're running from something."
"Or someone," I shot back. "Like a stalker who doesn't understand boundaries."
His eyes narrowed, but his smile didn't falter. "Boundaries are for people who deserve them." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "And you ruined something of mine. I don't forget debts."
I glared up at him, heart pounding, but I refused to step back. "It was coffee, Blackwood. Get over it. You think you can threaten me into… what, an apology tour?"
"I think," he murmured, tilting his head as if he were studying me under a microscope, "you don't realize what happens when you cross me."
For a second, fear scraped down my spine. But then anger burned it away.
So I did the only thing my stubborn pride allowed—I shoved him. Hard.
He didn't stumble, but his eyes widened slightly, just for a heartbeat.
"You don't scare me," I said, louder this time, forcing the words past my racing pulse. "And you can glare at me all you want, but you're just a boy with a pile of paper. Not God."
For a moment, silence stretched between us. Then he laughed. Soft, low, unnerving.
"We'll see," he said. "We'll see just how much I scare you."
And with that, he stepped aside, letting me pass, his gaze burning into my back the entire way home.
I didn't look back. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
But deep inside, something whispered: this wasn't over. Not even close.