Chapter 1 - Stuck With Me.
The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly in Room 2B, casting a bluish glow over a room full of half-asleep teenagers. The clock ticked toward 8:04 a.m., and Mr. Langley’s monotone lecture about the Enlightenment droned on, barely penetrating the static hum of disinterest.
In the very back of the room, Nessa Brown sat like she owned the place. Her desk, pushed slightly off-center from the others, served more as a footrest than a workspace. Her boots were up, crossed lazily on the table, the back legs of her chair balancing precariously as she leaned back, her fingers tapping a rhythm on her exposed stomach. Her dark brown hair fell messily around her shoulders, framing her piercing blue eyes, which currently stared blankly at the ceiling like it held more meaning than the lesson.
She chewed a piece of bubblegum with the casual defiance of someone who hadn’t brought a pen to class all semester.
Meanwhile, three rows forward and two columns to the left, Connor Hart sat perfectly upright. His desk was immaculate: books stacked, pen in hand, notepad lined with neat, bullet-pointed summaries of Mr. Langley’s lecture. His green eyes were focused, jaw tight, blonde hair immaculately styled. The student president, poster boy for discipline, didn’t even blink when a paper airplane whizzed past his ear.
Mr. Langley set down his chalk, clapped his hands once, and addressed the class with a rare twinkle of excitement. “Alright, listen up, everyone. We’re starting a partner project today—due next Friday. You’ll be researching a major historical revolution and presenting your findings together. I’ll assign the pairs.”
Connor straightened further, as if that were possible. A project. A partner. He was already preparing his color-coded outline.
Nessa yawned loudly. “God, not another project,” she groaned, more to herself than anyone.
Mr. Langley began reading off names. Connor ticked each pair off mentally, hopeful for someone equally competent. Then:
“Connor Hart… and Nessa Brown.”
Silence. Even Mr. Langley hesitated a beat before continuing.
Connor didn’t move. His expression didn’t crack, but a slow, creeping horror filled his chest. He turned his head slightly—only to see Nessa already standing and sauntering over with a catlike smile.
She ignored the whispered chuckles around them. As she approached, the student seated next to Connor—Trevor—smirked and kicked a spare chair away from her path. “No seat for sluts,” he muttered under his breath, flipping her off casually.
Nessa tilted her head at him like a lioness deciding whether to pounce. Then she shrugged. “Thanks for the offer, Trev. But I brought my own.”
With zero hesitation, she plopped herself right into Connor’s lap.
Connor went stiff like he’d been electrocuted. “Nessa!” he whispered urgently, trying not to cause a scene. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry,” she cooed, flipping through his pristine notes. “You’re comfortable. And these are so organized—damn, Harvard, do you practice this stuff?”
He reached around her to snatch the papers back. “Give me those! You’re crumpling the corner!”
“Oh no,” she gasped with mock horror, holding them above her head. “Not the sacred corner! What would the gods of academia say?”
“Seriously—get off me!” he whispered, red-faced. His hands hovered awkwardly near her sides, unsure where to push without touching something inappropriate.
She leaned back more firmly against him, curling up a little and cradling his notes like they were a kitten. Her shirt lifted slightly, exposing the small of her back, smooth skin and the waistband of her low-slung jeans peeking out. “Nah, I like it here. Plus, you smell nice. Like pencils and moral superiority.”
“This isn’t funny,” Connor said, shifting uncomfortably beneath her. “You’re making a scene.”
“You’ll survive.” She peeked up at him with a sly smile. “Who knew class prez had such strong thighs?”
He groaned. “I swear—”
“Swear all you want, pretty boy. You’re stuck with me now.”
They bickered quietly for a while longer—him trying to reclaim his notes without making physical contact, her dodging every grab with childish glee, all while the class ignored them or snickered from afar. Connor looked like he was dying a slow, internal death, while Nessa was having the time of her life.
The bell rang.
She finally stood, but not without flair—she shifted forward, then backward, purposefully pressing her hips into his face as she rose. Connor flinched, jaw clenched, trying not to react.
Nessa turned back, winked. “Thanks for the seat. We should do this again sometime.”
Then she was gone, strutting out the door, leaving the scent of cherry gum and chaos in her wake.
Connor sat frozen, staring blankly at his now-wrinkled notes, the tips of his ears burning red.
Mr. Langley walked past, pausing just long enough to mutter, “Good luck, Mr. Hart,” before moving on.
