Off the Record

There are three things I know with absolute certainty.

One, whoever invented eight a.m. classes deserves to have their morning coffee replaced with decaf for the rest of their miserable existence.

Two, my roommate, Hannah, is physically incapable of closing a kitchen cabinet.

And three, if Milo Adams ever mysteriously disappears, I should probably be the first person the police question.

Not because I’d actually murder him. I’m far too pretty for prison, and I have a very promising career ahead of me.

But, I have considered it pretty frequently.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

I look up from my laptop to find my best friend standing on the other side of our kitchen island, holding a spoonful of cereal halfway to her mouth.

“What thing?”

“The murder face.”

“I don’t have a murder face.”

“Zoey, you look like you’re mentally rehearsing where to bury a body.”

I glance back at my screen, where the university’s student media rankings have been updated for the month of September.

Right there, in bold black letters, is the reason I’m considering a life of crime.

Milo Adams — Student Broadcasting Excellence Award.

Again.

For the second consecutive semester.

I close my laptop with considerably more force than necessary.

Hannah winces. “I’m guessing he won something.”

“He’s not even that good.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He literally shows up to the station wearing sweatpants, drinks an iced coffee the size of a small child, and talks into a microphone for an hour. How is that award-worthy?”

“Maybe he’s charming.”

“He’s irritating.”

“Maybe he’s talented.”

“He’s obnoxious.”

“Maybe you’re a little obsessed with him.”

I point at her. “Choose your next words very carefully.”

She pops the cereal into her mouth, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Hannah and I have lived together since freshman year, which means she’s had a front-row seat to every academic rivalry, caffeine-induced breakdown, and increasingly elaborate fantasy I’ve entertained about Milo Adams getting struck by a very localized meteor.

She insists we have unresolved sexual tension.

I insist she needs psychiatric intervention.

Neither of us has been willing to compromise.

“All I’m saying,” she continues, leaning against the counter, “is that you talk about him an awful lot for someone who supposedly hates him.”

“Because he’s everywhere. Every time I turn around, there he is, smiling like some kind of genetically engineered asshole.”

“An attractive genetically engineered asshole.”

“Hannah.”

“What? I’m not blind.”

Unfortunately, neither am I.

And that’s the particularly offensive thing about Milo Adams. If he’d had the decency to grow into an unfortunate-looking adult, my life would be significantly easier.

Instead, somewhere between sophomore year of high school and our first semester of college, the universe apparently decided he hadn’t been sufficiently blessed with an insufferable personality and excellent grades. So it gave him a ridiculous jawline, dark brown hair that always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed, and the kind of smile that makes otherwise intelligent women forget basic motor functions.

It’s disgusting.

Especially because he knows it.

“Anyway,” Hannah says, rinsing her bowl, “aren’t they announcing that media fellowship thing today?”

My irritation immediately gives way to something considerably more pleasant.

“Eleven o’clock.”

“And you’re going to get it.”

“I better.”

“There’s my girl.”

The Hartwell Media Fellowship is the single biggest opportunity the university’s journalism and communications department has offered in years. It’s a partnership with one of the country’s largest independent media organizations, complete with a semester-long student production initiative, national exposure, and a summer internship in New York City.

A paid internship.

In New York.

At twenty-one years old.

I’ve been obsessing over it since the announcement went out in August.

For someone who’s wanted to work in investigative journalism since middle school, this is essentially the academic equivalent of someone handing me a winning lottery ticket and a lifetime supply of iced coffee.

There’s just one problem.

Milo applied, too.

Of course he did.

Because apparently ruining my life isn’t enough for him unless he can put it on his résumé.

“Well, I’m heading out,” I announce, sliding my laptop into my bag. “I have to meet Professor Bennett before my ten o’clock.”

Hannah narrows her eyes. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“I had coffee.”

“That’s a beverage.”

“It had milk.”

“Zoey.”

“Fine, mom.”

I grab a granola bar from the pantry and hold it up as proof of my commitment to staying alive.

She smiles sweetly. “Love you.”

“Debatable.”

“Tell Milo I said hi.”

I flip her off on my way out.

Her laughter follows me into the hallway.

October is the one month of the year when Bellweather University looks like it belongs on a postcard.

The campus is obnoxiously picturesque, with old redbrick buildings, sprawling lawns, and enormous oak trees that turn ridiculous shades of orange and gold as soon as the temperature drops below seventy. Someone in administration has already decorated the main courtyard with pumpkins and hay bales, and the coffee shop near the library has started selling enough pumpkin-flavored drinks to qualify as a public health concern.

It’s my favorite time of year. Not that I’m going to admit something as embarrassingly sentimental out loud.

I cross the courtyard with my headphones in, mentally organizing the rest of my day. I need to finish editing an article for Friday’s paper, interview two students about the proposed library renovations, and somehow squeeze in enough time to make myself presentable for the fellowship announcement.

Not that I’m nervous.

I’m not.

I’ve worked my ass off for this opportunity.

Since freshman year, I’ve written over sixty articles for The Bellweather Bulletin, worked my way up to features editor, and spent more weekends chasing interviews than attending actual college parties.

Meanwhile, Milo has built a disturbingly successful reputation at the student radio station by doing what he does best.

Talking.

Which, if we’re being technical, is something he’s been doing without interruption since approximately 2014.

My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I glance at the screen.

Mom: Good luck today, sweetheart! We’re so proud of you.

I smile despite myself.

Me: Love you! I’ll call you after.

Another message appears almost immediately.

Mom: Oh! I ran into Diane Adams at the grocery store yesterday. She said Milo applied for the same program! Isn’t that wonderful?

My smile vanishes. Of course she did. Of course my mother is still friendly with Milo’s mother.

Our families have known each other since we were kids, which was perfectly lovely back when Milo and I actually liked each other.

Before everything got complicated.

Before he became the person he is now.

I stare at the message for a moment before typing back.

Me: Mom. Please don’t.

Mom: What? I’m just saying it’s nice that you two ended up at the same university!

Me: It’s a statistical tragedy.

Mom: You used to be such good friends.

And there it is.

The sentence that never fails to make something unpleasant twist beneath my ribs.

I lock my phone without responding.

Because yes, once upon a time, Milo Adams was my best friend.

Which is a fact I would very much appreciate everyone forgetting.

The student media building smells like burnt coffee, printer toner, and the collective desperation of several dozen sleep-deprived communications majors.

In other words, home.

I push through the glass doors and immediately spot Professor Bennett near the reception desk, arguing with the copier.

“Come on, you useless piece of—”

She stops when she notices me.

“Miss Martin.”

“Hi, Professor.”

“You didn’t hear anything.”

“Hear what?” I tease.

She exhales, abandoning the machine before it can permanently damage her blood pressure. Professor Bennett is in her early forties, wears enormous glasses with brightly colored frames, and possesses the unnerving ability to make even the most confident students feel like they’re twelve years old and caught cheating on a spelling test.

She’s also the faculty adviser for The Bulletin and one of the primary reasons I’ve become a better writer.

I adore her.

Even when she makes me rewrite an article six times.

“Are you ready for this morning?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Because I have high expectations.”

I straighten instinctively. “For the fellowship?”

“For all of you.” She gives me a look over the top of her glasses. “This is a significant opportunity for our department, Zoey. I hope everyone remembers that.”

Something about her tone makes me pause.

“Is there something I should know?”

“Eleven o’clock, Miss Martin.”

“Right, but—”

“Eleven.”

And with that, she marches into her office and shuts the door.

Well. That isn’t suspicious at all.

I spend the next hour attempting to concentrate on an article about campus parking regulations, which is difficult because my brain keeps replaying that conversation.

By ten forty-five, I’ve convinced myself that either I’m about to receive a fellowship offer or Professor Bennett has discovered the extremely unflattering photograph of Dean Reynolds I accidentally attached to an email last semester.

At ten fifty-two, I give up pretending to work and head toward the second-floor conference room.

The hallway is already crowded with students from the journalism and broadcasting departments. I recognize several faces, including Marcus Lee, one of the station’s producers, and Olivia Chen, who writes the political column for The Bulletin.

Olivia waves me over.

“Hey! You nervous?”

“Not particularly.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, moderately.”

“Same. I heard they’re only taking two people.”

My stomach tightens.

“Two?”

“Apparently.”

“That’s weird. The original announcement said there was one lead fellowship.”

“Maybe they changed it.”

Before I can ask what she means, a familiar voice cuts through the hallway.

“Martin.”

I close my eyes. Nope. Absolutely not.

I briefly consider pretending I haven’t heard him, but unfortunately, ignoring Milo Adams has never once discouraged him from speaking.

“Martin,” he repeats, closer this time. “You deaf?”

I turn around.

And there he is.

The human equivalent of a parking ticket.

Milo Adams stands a few feet away wearing dark jeans, a black university sweatshirt, and a backward baseball cap. His hair curls slightly beneath the brim, and he’s holding his usual iced coffee that looks large enough to sustain a family of four.

He smiles.

I immediately want to commit a crime.

“Adams,” I reply flatly. “I was having such a nice morning.”

“Aw. I missed you, too.”

“Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to wish you luck.”

I blink.

That was unexpected.

“Really?”

“Sure.” He takes a leisurely sip of his coffee. “I figured you might need it.”

There he is.

“That’s funny. I was actually just wondering if they give out participation certificates for people who talk about themselves for a living.”

His grin widens.

“Probably not. But if they do, I’ll grab you one. You seem to have a pretty extensive collection of second-place finishes.”

Olivia makes a strangled noise beside me.

Traitor.

I fold my arms. “You know, Milo, for someone who’s supposedly so talented with words, it’s impressive how often you manage to say absolutely nothing of value.”

“And yet you hang on every single one.”

“Like a hostage.”

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

As though I’m the funniest person he’s ever met.

Which is another thing about Milo that drives me insane.

Nothing bothers him.

I could stand in the middle of campus with a megaphone and announce that he’s an overconfident, insufferable jackass, and he’d probably offer to help me adjust the microphone.

It’s exhausting trying to hate someone who seems to enjoy it.

“Nice article last week, by the way,” he says.

That catches me off guard.

“What?”

“The one about the university housing shortage. Thought it was good.”

I study his expression, waiting for the inevitable insult.

It doesn’t come.

“Thanks,” I say cautiously.

“Could’ve used a stronger ending, though.”

And there it is.

“Could’ve used a stronger ending,” I repeat.

“Yeah. Your opening was solid, and the interviews were great, but the last paragraph felt a little rushed.”

I stare at him.

“Did you seriously come over here to critique my article?”

“Would you prefer I lied?”

“I’d prefer you develop a sudden and permanent inability to speak.”

He puts a hand over his heart.

“That’s hurtful, Zo.”

I go still.

Just for a second.

Zo.

Nobody calls me that anymore.

Not even Hannah.

It’s a stupid nickname, really. Two letters. Nothing particularly special about it.

But Milo started calling me Zo when we were nine years old, back when we spent summer afternoons riding our bikes around the neighborhood and arguing over whose turn it was to pick the movie.

Back when his house was practically my second home.

Back when I knew the sound of his laugh better than almost anything else.

Before—

“Don’t call me that.”

The words come out sharper than I intend.

Milo’s smile falters.

It’s barely noticeable, just a slight change around his mouth, but I’ve known him long enough to catch it.

For one strange moment, neither of us says anything.

Then he nods.

“Right. Sorry.”

I hate that he sounds sincere.

I hate even more that a small part of me feels guilty.

Fortunately, Professor Bennett chooses that exact moment to emerge from the conference room.

“Everyone inside, please! We’re starting.”

Milo steps aside, gesturing toward the door.

“Ladies first.”

“Wow. You do know basic manners.”

“Only on special occasions.”

I walk past him.

And if my shoulder brushes his arm, it’s purely because the hallway is crowded.

Not because I noticed how close he was standing.

Absolutely not.

The conference room is packed.

I slide into an empty chair near the front, pull out my notebook, and carefully place my favorite pen beside it.

Milo takes the seat directly to my right.

Naturally.

I turn toward him.

“There are literally twelve other chairs.”

He looks around the room, then back at me.

“Good observation.”

“Pick one.”

“But this one’s comfortable.”

“So is a dumpster. Have you considered moving into one?”

He grins, settling farther into his chair.

“You’re in a good mood today.”

“I was until approximately thirty seconds ago.”

“Glad I could help.”

I open my notebook and make a deliberate show of ignoring him.

Beside me, he opens his iced coffee.

The straw squeaks against the lid.

Once. Twice. Three times.

I turn my head slowly.

He looks at me innocently.

“What?”

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

“Doing what?”

I point at the cup.

He glances down.

“Oh. This?”

He moves the straw again.

Squeak.

I inhale through my nose.

“Milo.”

“Zoey.”

“I swear to God—”

“Good morning, everyone!”

Professor Bennett’s voice cuts through the room, and I immediately face forward.

Milo chuckles quietly beside me.

I make a mental note to research whether murder committed under extreme provocation receives a lighter sentence.

Professor Bennett stands at the front of the room beside Dr. Callahan, the head of the broadcasting department.

A large screen behind them displays the Hartwell Media logo.

“First,” Professor Bennett begins, “I’d like to thank everyone who applied for this year’s fellowship. We received an extraordinary number of submissions, and the quality of work was genuinely impressive.”

My pen hovers over my notebook.

“After reviewing the applications with our partners at Hartwell Media, we’ve decided to approach this opportunity a little differently than originally planned.”

I exchange a glance with Olivia across the table.

Differently?

“Rather than selecting a single fellowship recipient based solely on an application portfolio, Hartwell has proposed a semester-long collaborative project that will allow two finalists to demonstrate their abilities in a professional production environment.”

Two finalists. My pulse quickens.

“The university will produce an original investigative podcast series, developed and hosted by those two students. The series will cover issues affecting college communities, with an emphasis on original reporting, audience engagement, and responsible journalism.”

I sit a little straighter. An investigative podcast? Okay. That’s actually brilliant. It’s journalism, broadcasting, research, interviewing, and production all wrapped into one project.

I can do that. I can absolutely do that.

“The selected students will work together throughout the remainder of the fall semester,” Professor Bennett continues. “They’ll be responsible for pitching stories, conducting interviews, writing scripts, recording episodes, and coordinating with our production team.”

I can already imagine it.

Late nights in the newsroom, chasing leads, interviewing sources, putting together stories that actually matter.

This is everything I’ve wanted.

“At the end of the semester, both students will be considered for paid summer internships with Hartwell Media. One will also be selected for the highly competitive lead reporting fellowship, which includes an additional stipend and placement with the organization’s investigative team in New York.”

My heart practically leaps out of my chest.

“The finalists were selected based on their previous work, academic performance, faculty recommendations, and demonstrated potential.”

Beside me, Milo shifts in his chair.

I barely notice.

“One finalist has distinguished herself through exceptional written reporting, editorial leadership, and a commitment to investigative journalism.”

I stop breathing.

“Zoey Martin.”

For a second, I simply stare.

Then Olivia squeals from across the room, someone starts clapping, and Professor Bennett smiles directly at me.

“Congratulations, Zoey.”

Holy shit. Holy. Shit.

I did it.

Or at least, I made it to the next stage.

I grin so hard my cheeks hurt as applause fills the room.

“Thank you,” I manage, trying not to sound like I’m about to burst into tears.

Professor Bennett nods.

“Our second finalist has demonstrated exceptional talent in audio production, broadcasting, and audience development. His work with the campus radio station has consistently exceeded expectations.”

My smile slowly disappears.

No.

No, no, no.

Don’t you dare.

“Milo Adams.”

The room erupts into applause again. I turn my head. Milo is already looking at me. And smiling.

Of course he’s smiling.

Because apparently the universe looked at my carefully constructed academic future and thought, You know what would make this more interesting?

This is a fucking nightmare.

“Congratulations, Milo,” Professor Bennett says.

“Thank you,” he replies, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

I stare straight ahead. This is fine. Everything is fine. So what if Milo and I are both finalists? It’s a competition. I can beat him. I’ve beaten him before. Mostly.

Depending on the category.

Professor Bennett clears her throat.

“Now, I want to emphasize that this is not an individual assignment. Hartwell is specifically interested in how well our finalists collaborate across different media disciplines.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. Oh, I don’t like where this is going.

“You’ll be producing the series together, and your ability to work as a team will be a major factor in the final evaluation.”

I slowly turn toward Milo. He looks equally surprised. For the first time all morning, his ridiculous smile has disappeared.

Good. At least he’s suffering, too.

“You’ll be expected to dedicate a minimum of fifteen hours per week to the project, outside of your regular coursework,” Professor Bennett says. “That includes scheduled studio sessions, production meetings, and field reporting.”

Fifteen hours per week. With Milo.

I start calculating how many consecutive hours a person can spend in close proximity to another human being before developing a criminal record.

Professor Bennett keeps talking.

“Your first assignment will be to develop three potential investigative stories. You’ll present your pitches together next Monday.”

Together. That word is quickly becoming my least favorite in the English language.

“Your first production meeting will be Tuesday evening, and we'll schedule your initial recording session once your story pitches have been approved. Your official promotional launch is planned for November.”

My hand shoots up.

Professor Bennett sighs.

“Yes, Zoey?”

“Just one.”

“Go ahead.”

“Is there any possibility that the finalists could produce separate projects and have those evaluated individually?”

“No.”

“What about alternating episodes?”

“No.”

“Or perhaps we could—”

“Miss Martin.”

I close my mouth.

“Collaboration is an essential part of professional journalism. You and Mr. Adams were selected specifically because your strengths complement one another.”

I glance at Milo. He raises his eyebrows.

I look back at Professor Bennett.

“Respectfully, our personalities don’t.”

A few students laugh. Professor Bennett does not.

“I’m aware of your history.”

Oh, fantastic.

“But I’m also aware that you’re both intelligent, capable young adults who should be perfectly able to set aside a high school rivalry for the sake of their futures.”

High school rivalry. If only it were that simple.

“Understood,” I mutter.

“Excellent.”

She clicks to the final slide.

“Congratulations again to our finalists. I look forward to seeing what you create.”

Applause breaks out around the room.

I clap along mechanically, trying to process the fact that the single greatest opportunity of my college career has just been attached to the single greatest inconvenience of my entire life.

Milo leans toward me.

“Well,” he murmurs, “this should be fun.”

I don’t look at him.

“Don’t speak to me.”

“Pretty sure that’s gonna make the podcast difficult.”

“Then consider this our first creative challenge.”

He laughs. I hate him.

I really, really hate him.

By the time the meeting ends, I’ve developed a headache directly behind my left eye. I pack my things as quickly as possible, hoping to escape before Milo can find another creative way to irritate me. Unfortunately, the man has the survival instincts of a mosquito.

“Hey, partner.”

I freeze. Slowly, I turn around.

“Don’t.”

He stops beside the conference room door.

“Don’t what?”

“Call me that.”

“Partner?”

“Yes.”

“But we’re partners.”

“Against my will.”

“Pretty sure the university would frown upon you describing a prestigious fellowship as involuntary servitude.”

“I’m considering filing a complaint.”

“With who?”

“Anyone who will listen.”

He shifts his backpack higher onto one shoulder, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“Come on, Martin. It could be worse.”

I stare at him.

“How?”

“We could’ve been assigned to work together for an entire year.”

I close my eyes.

“Please stop talking.”

“Or we could’ve been paired up for one of those semester-long research projects where you have to spend every weekend in the library.”

“Milo.”

“Or—”

“Do you ever shut up?”

He grins.

“Not professionally, no.”

Against my better judgment, a laugh nearly escapes me. Nearly. I catch it before it can do any damage.

His expression changes like he noticed.

Which is irritating, because Milo has always been annoyingly good at noticing things about me.

Things I would much rather he didn’t.

“Look,” he says, and for once, his voice loses some of its teasing edge. “I know this isn’t exactly what either of us expected, but it’s a good opportunity.”

I shift my bag on my shoulder.

“I know.”

“And we’re both good at what we do.”

“I know.”

“So maybe we could just... not make each other miserable for three months?”

I study him.

He’s actually being reasonable.

Which is deeply unsettling.

“Are you suggesting some kind of truce?”

“Temporary ceasefire.”

“Terms?”

“No sabotaging each other’s work.”

“Fine.”

“No trying to get the other person kicked off the project.”

“Define trying.”

“Zoey.”

“Fine.”

“And maybe we could attempt to have one conversation without you threatening bodily harm.”

“That’s a pretty unreasonable request.”

He laughs.

Then he extends his hand.

I look down at it.

It’s just a hand.

A perfectly normal hand attached to an exceptionally irritating man.

Still, something about the gesture tugs at a memory I haven’t thought about in years.

Two kids sitting cross-legged on the floor of Milo’s childhood bedroom, surrounded by a disaster of comic books, candy wrappers, and half-finished homework.

His hand stretched toward mine.

Pinky promise, Zo.

I blink, and the memory disappears.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Truce?”

I look back up at him. For one brief, stupid second, I can almost see the boy I used to know. Not the Milo who drives me insane in class or wins awards I desperately want. Not the Milo who seems to consider irritating me a competitive sport.

Just Milo.

The kid who used to climb the tree outside my bedroom window when he wanted me to come outside. The boy who once walked three miles in the rain because I’d called him crying after my parents had a fight. My best friend.

I swallow.

Then I place my hand in his.

“Temporary,” I emphasize.

His fingers close around mine.

“Temporary,” he agrees.

His hand is warm.

Much warmer than I expect.

And considerably larger than I remember.

Which is a ridiculous thing to notice because I’m not twelve years old anymore, and neither is he.

I pull away.

“Also, I’m still going to beat you.”

Milo’s familiar grin returns.

“There she is.”

“Don’t get comfortable.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I raise my hand without turning around and give him the finger.

His laughter follows me down the hallway.

And despite everything, despite the fact that I’ve just agreed to spend the next three months working with a man I’d happily launch into the sun, I find myself smiling.

Only for a second. Then I remember who he is. And why I stopped smiling around him in the first place.

By the time I make it outside, my phone is vibrating again.

Hannah.

I answer immediately.

“Before you say anything, I need you to know that I’m considering transferring.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“What happened?”

“I got the fellowship.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then she screams so loudly I have to yank the phone away from my ear.

“ZOEY! OH MY GOD!”

“I know!”

“YOU DID IT!”

“Technically, I made it to the finals.”

“I DON’T CARE! THAT’S AMAZING!”

I laugh, unable to help myself.

For about five seconds, I let myself enjoy it.

Then I remember the catch.

“There’s a problem.”

Hannah goes quiet.

“What kind of problem?”

“A six-foot-something, emotionally exhausting problem.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“NO.”

“Unfortunately.”

“MILO?”

“The one and only.”

She makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like she’s choking.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“You’re working with Milo Adams?”

“Every week until the end of December.”

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh my GOD.”

“Hannah.”

“This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

I stop walking.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, but it is. Do you understand how entertaining this is going to be?”

“For you, maybe.”

“You’re going to be sitting in a tiny recording studio together?”

“Yes.”

“With microphones?”

“That’s generally how podcasts work.”

“And headphones?”

“Hannah.”

“And you’re going to have to talk to each other?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, wait!”

I can practically hear her smiling.

“Do you remember what I said this morning?”

“Unfortunately, I remember most of the ridiculous things you say.”

“Unresolved sexual tension.”

I groan.

“There is no sexual tension.”

“Right.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Of course.”

“Absolutely zero.”

“Sure, babe.”

I stop near the fountain in the center of campus, watching a group of students struggle to hang a crooked Halloween banner between two trees.

“Hannah, I need you to understand something. Milo Adams is the most aggravating human being I’ve ever met. He’s arrogant, competitive, obnoxious, and entirely too pleased with himself.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And even if he wasn’t all those things, I would never, under any circumstances, be romantically interested in him.”

“Got it.”

“Ever.”

“Completely understood.”

“I’m glad we’re clear.”

A beat passes.

Then she says, “So what are you wearing to the Halloween party?”

I stare at the phone.

“What?”

“The Sigma Kappa Halloween party. It’s in a few weeks. You promised you’d go with me.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Nothing! Just changing the subject.”

Suspicious.

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well, you better start thinking about it. It’s going to be huge this year.”

“Fine. We’ll figure something out.”

“Love you!”

“Love you, too.”

I hang up before she can say anything else.

The courtyard is crowded now, students weaving between buildings with coffee cups and backpacks, the October breeze sending fallen leaves skittering across the pavement.

I should be happy.

And I am. Mostly.

I’ve made it to the finals of a fellowship that could change my life. I have an opportunity to build something meaningful, something that might actually open doors after graduation.

All I have to do is survive three months with Milo Adams.

How hard can that be?

My phone buzzes.

An unfamiliar group message lights up the screen.

Hartwell Podcast Production: Fall Semester

The first message is from Professor Bennett.

Professor Bennett: Welcome, finalists! I’ve created this group so we can coordinate production schedules. Please exchange contact information and begin discussing your first pitch meeting.

Another message appears separate from the group text.

Unknown Number: Hey, Martin.

I stare at it.

No.

A third message arrives.

Unknown Number: Guess who.

I close my eyes.

Me: I’m blocking this number.

Milo: Seems counterproductive to our professional relationship.

Me: We don’t have a relationship.

Milo: Ouch.

Me: I’m serious.

Milo: So am I. We should probably discuss our first episode.

I hesitate. He’s right. Which is annoying.

Me: Fine. Tomorrow 4PM. Library.

Milo: Can’t. Radio shift.

Me: Thursday?

Milo: Production meeting.

I grind my teeth.

Me: Then when are you available?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Milo: Tonight. 8. Student media building.

I sigh.

Me: Fine.

Milo: Looking forward to it, partner.

Me: I hope your microphone breaks.

Milo: Missed you too, Zo.

I stare at those last two letters.

Zo.

My chest tightens in that familiar, unwanted way.

For a moment, I consider typing something back. Something sharp enough to remind him that he doesn’t get to use that name anymore.

That he lost the right a long time ago.

Instead, I put my phone in my pocket and start walking.

Because the truth is, I don’t hate Milo Adams just because he’s arrogant or because he beats me at things or because he seems determined to make my life as difficult as humanly possible.

I hate him because once upon a time, he was the person I trusted most in the world.

And then he gave me a reason not to.

I’ve spent the last five years making sure I never forget that.

So whatever happens over the next three months, whatever ridiculous arguments we have or whatever professional success we manage to stumble into together, one thing is absolutely certain.

Milo Adams is not getting close to me again.