Summary: You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Warnings / Tags: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, enemies-ishh to lovers, forced proximity, avengers au, breakfast club vibes?, bff!bob, cheerleader!nat/wanda , football!sam/steve/walker, emo!ava, freshman!peter, Bucky is an asshole like actually, slow-ish burn, tension, inspired by @opheliabbarnes
Word Count: 4.5k
Series Masterlist
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“So brutal that it was with Tony Stark,” Bob shook his head, tossing a chip in his mouth.
“You know we’re not supposed to eat in here,” You commented, voice hushed.
He glanced around at the library, eyes scanning for any peering eyes. Your table, to be fair, was situated toward the study rooms and basically out of view, but still.
“Okay, rule follower.” He chuckled, his hand dipping back into the bag.
”Anyway, yeah, who is this Tony Stark guy?,”
“He’s some big shot baseball player.” Bob’s mouth was full of chips as he spoke. You couldn’t help but smile, shaking your head as you looked around, ensuring no one was close by. “Kind of an asshole. I only had one class with him sophomore year—but I do know he and Bucky do not get along for whatever reason.”
You snorted. “What, some kind of Jets vs Sharks mentality?”
“Is that a football reference?”
“Bob, that’s West Side Story.”
“Oh.”
Your shoulders shook with quiet laughter before you dropped your gaze back to the open textbook sprawled across the table, your notebook balanced precariously on top. The pages were already drowning in your handwriting—ink smudged, lines pressed so deep the paper nearly tore. Your fingers ached, borderline numb from the sheer volume of content, but none of it mattered. Nothing stuck. Normally, writing things out by hand carved the information into your memory. Today, though, your mind was everywhere but in this library.
“I felt so bad, Bob,” You sighed, toying with the edge of the page. “His face, it was like…I don’t know, for once it seemed like he almost displayed an emotion other than arrogance.”
“What did he say? I mean, how’d he take it? Give me the play by play,”
You tilted your head, thoughts pulling you back to two nights ago in Bucky’s Tahoe, both of you stunned into silence by what you’d just seen.
He’d snatched the binoculars from your hands, knuckles white against the casing as he squinted through the lenses. The pair had already vanished into the shadows of the dugout, but his stare lingered, locked on the empty spot like it still held answers.
You sat frozen, every word dying in your throat. Your mind raced, searching for something—anything—to break the silence, but all you could manage was the sharp pulse of panic echoing inside your chest.
“Barnes,” Your voice was just above a whisper, almost scared to turn your head toward him. “Uh, maybe we should—”
“We should go in there,”
“What?” You gaped. “Absolutely not—”
“—Catch ‘em in the act—,”
“—Barnes, think about this for a second. You’re obviously upset—”
He was already yanking the binoculars off his face, snapping them shut as if they’d burned him. “Upset? Fuck that— I’m gonna go beat his ass—” he barked, shoulder jerking as he started to unbuckle his seatbelt.
Before you could think, your hand moved on its own. Your fingers clamped around the cuff of his hoodie, the fabric bunching between your palm. His sentence died mid-air. For a second all motion stalled—his eyes sliding down to the grip at his arm, then back up to your face, searching.
The Tahoe was quiet, headlights still dark, but in that small bubble the air felt charged, the sudden closeness of you two loud as thunder.
Your grip loosened, but your fingers could still feel the flexing of his forearm muscles. “Don’t,”
“Why?”
“You’ll just end up doing something you’ll regret later.”
He let out a long breath, the heat of it fogging in the cold air between you, then pivoted his head and fixed his gaze back on the shadowed mouth of the dugout. His jaw worked like he was counting options, the lines at his forehead tightening with each slow blink. You watched the whole thought process play out on his face — strategy, annoyance, a flicker of something like restraint — and felt your own pulse hitch.
The last thing you needed was to be in the middle of a brawl between two broad-shouldered guys with too much adrenaline. And also, practical concerns: he was your ride, and you had that paper due in the morning that required every ounce of functioning brain you owned.
You released his sleeve and let your hand fall away, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers had lingered. Did he notice? Was he filing you under “weird”? You opened your mouth to fill the silence, desperate to escape the charged silence that had somehow become routine.
“…It’ll be better revenge to have it come out in the paper, anyway.”
His smile was slow, deliberate, the kind that stretched too perfectly across his face. It wasn’t warm—it was sharp, devious, a warning wrapped in amusement. Your chest tightened, and you swore the air in the car had dissipated.
“Knew I brought you for a reason, Specs,”
With that, he started his truck back up and sped off toward the main campus.
The truck hummed along the darkened streets, headlights slicing through the night, and all you could hear was the faint scrape of tires and your own heartbeat, thudding too loud in the quiet.
You caught yourself staring a little longer than necessary, trying to read him. Shock? Anger? Hurt? Something in between? Whatever it was, it was impossible to pin down. He didn’t flinch, didn’t tense, didn’t even let his jaw clench. For a moment, confusion flared—shouldn’t he be more upset? More…human about this? But then, he just leaned back in his seat, calm, almost unnervingly so, leaving you more lost than ever.
When he finally parked, you turned before you could talk yourself out of it.
“Are you…okay?”
He didn’t look at you, just simply gathered his stuff and threw open his door.
“Perfectly fine.”
“Huh.” Bob leaned back in his chair, chin resting on his elbow, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. “So… you grabbed his arm, did you?”
You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “That’s all you took from that?”
“Well, when you tell the story in such a captivating way—”
“I hate you,” you deadpanned, glaring over your notebook.
“Alright, alright.” He lifted his hands in surrender, though his grin didn’t fade. “So then what? How’d it end?”
“Nothing. We split up. Went back to our dorms like nothing happened.”
He raised a brow. “And now?”
You shrugged, chewing absently on your pencil. “No clue. We’ve still got work to do on the article. Maybe I’ll ask him to meet tonight.”
Bob snorted. “Good luck. It’s Thursday.”
But you were already pulling out your phone. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”
“Thursday nights are half-off drinks at Blip.”
You squinted at him. “Who even are you right now?”
“Steve mentioned it when we were working on our pitch. Their whole crew goes. Ergo—no chance you’re tying down Bucky Barnes on a Thursday night.”
“I don’t want to tie Bucky Barnes down on any night, Bob.”
“Could’ve fooled me, Grabby Hands.”
You smacked his arm, gathering your notebook and textbook against your chest before storming off, his laughter trailing behind you.
You trudged back into your dorm, bag weighing heavy on your shoulder, every step punished by the unforgiving clogs you usually wore with socks. The living room was chaos—Nat and Wanda in a storm of fabric, tops tossed across the couch as they swapped clothes at lightning speed.
“There she is!” Wanda spotted you instantly, her grin wide and mischievous. “Where’ve you been hiding, roomie?”
“Library. With Bob.” Your bag hit the floor with a dramatic thud, and you dragged a hand over your face, eyes on the couch like it was a life raft you desperately needed.
“Sounds positively thrilling,” Nat teased, not even looking up as she yanked a cropped sweater over her head.
“Well—lucky you,” Wanda chimed in, waving a sequined top like it was a truce. “We’re going to Blip later. And you’re coming.”
You blinked, your voice emerging as more of a groan than a response. “I am?”
“Yeah, we’re all rallying behind Bucky tonight,” Wanda said, twirling in front of the mirror to catch every angle of the skirt hugging her legs. “Poor guy just found out Sharon’s been screwing Tony Stark after hours. Can you believe that?”
Your brows knit together before you could stop them, the words catching sharp in your ears. That’s all he told them? “Is that so?”
“Yeah, he told Steve yesterday,” Nat chimed in, snorting as she sifted through the pile of clothes on the couch. “Knew she was a skank. So, the boys are getting him back out there, and obviously, we’re going. I’m trying to convince Wanda here to finally give ol’ Walker a chance—”
Wanda shot you a helpless look, lowering her voice as if Nat couldn’t hear her. “I’ve told her forty times he’s not really my type.”
“And I told you,” Nat sing-songed, holding up a glittery top, “you never know until you take ‘em for a test spin.”
Then both pairs of eyes landed squarely on you.
“So,” Nat smirked. “What do you say? You in?”
You shifted your weight, throat dry. “Uh… I don’t know, guys…”
Nat groaned, yanking a top over her head and tossing it into the growing pile. “Come on, a night out won’t kill you.”
“I don’t really fit in with your whole group—and Bucky doesn’t even like me.”
“Sure he does.” Nat waved her hand like it was obvious. “After I gave him a talking-to, he should be treating you better these days.”
Your eyes snapped wide. “Nat… what are you talking about?”
“Last week at their dorm.” She barely looked up as she pulled on another shirt. “I laid into Bucky about how he needs to be nicer to you. You’re our roommate—”
“—And friend,” Wanda added gently from the mirror.
“—And friend,” Nat echoed with a grin, “so he needs to get on board with you!”
You just stood there. Her words hit you like a door slamming in your face, rattling around until they lodged in your chest. Meanwhile, Nat carried on as if nothing had happened, flitting between outfit changes while Wanda cracked open two cans of something fizzy and sweet, the hiss filling the silence you couldn’t.
Was that why Bucky had suddenly started treating you like an actual human being? Because Nat had cornered him and ordered him to? Had it really been that obvious—to everyone—that you two couldn’t stand each other, so much so that she felt the need to intervene?
And then there was Sharon. Why hadn’t he told them you were there when he caught her? Was it shame? Embarrassment? Or was it something else entirely—was he… protecting you?
None of it fit together. None of it made sense.
God, how childish were you? Everyone else was trying—Nat, Wanda, even Bucky in his own infuriating way. And you? You were too busy clinging to your jaded opinions, too quick to build walls, too willing to stay isolated the way you always had.
All of a sudden, you wanted this school to be different. You wanted to be different.
You took a deep breath, hoping you wouldn’t regret the words falling out of your mouth.
“Alright, I’ll come,”
Nat and Wanda were riding a warm buzz, laughter spilling out of them as the three of you made your way toward the neon glow of Blip. You, on the other hand, were stone-cold sober. Drinking had never been your thing—not since the first time you’d tried it and woke up with what felt like a jackhammer in your skull. To be fair, you’d sampled every type of liquor that night like it was a tasting menu, which, in hindsight, was a catastrophic first go.
Getting ready had been its own battlefield. Nat and Wanda treated you like their life-sized doll, pulling tops and skirts from their wardrobes, holding each one against you in the mirror like they were curating an exhibit. The girl staring back at you—their project—felt like a stranger in borrowed skin. Still, you hadn’t surrendered without a fight.
Eventually, though, you surrendered—sort of. Wanda unearthed an old fitted band tee from her drawer that hugged you just enough to pass for “going out attire,” and you paired it with the only jeans in your closet you considered remotely cool. Low-rise, snug at the top but loose at the bottom, with the faintest strip of skin flashing where the tee refused to meet denim.
Nat had practically strong-armed you into pulling your hair free from the lazy braid you’d tied that morning, the strands falling in loose waves that almost looked intentional. Almost. But nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to convince you to ditch your glasses. Contacts were out of the question, and besides, you were nearly blind without them.
The outfit didn’t transform you into someone unrecognizable, but it was enough of a shift to stir unease in your stomach as the three of you neared the glowing doors of Blip. One glance at your ID and the bouncer waved you through, no questions asked. You trailed after Nat and Wanda, watching their practiced confidence as they scanned the room, zeroing in on a table where the boys had already staked their claim.
Inside, the bass rattled through your ribs, the floor clung to your shoes with every step, and laughter rose above the din of clinking bottles. Seniors leaned over pong tables, chanting as cups tipped; others lounged like they owned the place, nursing half-drained beers. You couldn’t have felt more misplaced if you tried.
Nerves settled in as the thought of Bob flickered in your mind—God, you should’ve forced him to come. Thirty minutes, you promised yourself. Half an hour of pretending you belonged, then you’d come up with some excuse involving him and make your escape.
“There they are!” Steve’s voice carried easily over the music, his hands pulling Nat into a quick but intimate embrace. When his eyes found you, his whole expression warmed. “Glad you came too.”
“Nat wasn’t taking no for an answer,” you chuckled, shifting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder.
“You want somethin’ to drink?” Sam asked, giving you a friendly grin.
“No, that’s okay,” you shook your head.
“Hey, Wanda,” Walker drawled, propping himself against the edge of the table in a way that screamed casual on purpose. “You look awesome.”
“Thanks, Walker.” Wanda’s polite smile was quick, practiced. Then she turned to you. “Hey, wanna go to the bar with me?”
“Oh, uh—”
Her eyebrow ticked just slightly, smirk threatening to surface as her eyes locked on yours. You blinked, understanding dawning. “Yes. Yes, let’s go.”
She grabbed your hand—normally an unwelcome gesture—but with Wanda, it felt safe. She tugged you through the throng of bodies, weaving between dancing pairs and clusters of laughing students, guiding you toward the corner bar. You leaned against the sticky wood beside her, scanning the crowd without really seeing it, listening instead to her laugh.
“God, thank you for catching my signal,” she admitted, breathy and relieved. “I just… I cannot pretend to like him.”
You nodded, finally letting out a shaky laugh yourself. “Who says you have to?”
“Well, no one, really, but it feels like there’s pressure, you know? Nat’s dating Steve, and I’m supposed to follow her lead or something.”
“Wouldn’t Bucky be the choice, then?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
She barked a laugh, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. He was always with Sharon—and besides, we went to primary school together. He’s more like a distant cousin or something.”
As you spoke about him, a small twist curled in your stomach, elusive and unfamiliar. Nat had intervened—had put him on notice—but that only seemed to sharpen your awareness. Hypervigilance of…what, exactly? Nothing had technically changed. Except, maybe, for the fact that you’d been there when he’d faced betrayal head-on, something he apparently shrugged off. So why were you the one feeling unsettled?
Your overthinking rang louder than the bass thumping from the speakers. He was just a jock, for Christ’s sake. So why did the thought of him being somewhere in this bar make your pulse race?
You cleared your throat. “Where is he, anyway? Aren’t we supposed to be out here, you know… making him feel better or whatever?”
“I’m not sure,” Wanda shrugged, leaning forward to grab her drink. Then she turned to you, thrusting a bottle into your hands.
“Oh, I don’t—”
“It’s non-alcoholic,” she interrupted with a grin. “I find it helps to have something in your hands at functions like this. Looks pretty much the same, so no one questions it.”
You only managed a small, grateful smile. Words escaped you. At your old schools, friends were scarce, if they existed at all. Having someone look out for you—like Wanda—felt… warm. Safe.
“Now, come on. Let’s see what those idiots are up to,” she said, tugging you back toward the table.
You settled into a chair between her and Sam. Across from you, Nat practically nestled in Steve’s lap while Walker launched into an animated discussion with Sam, their gestures exaggerated and loud over the thumping music. As the minutes went on, you slowly settled into your chair as you and Wanda traded horror stories about awkward social situations.
“Should someone check in on Buck?” Sam asked, raising his beer bottle to his lips. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”
“I think he’s doing just fine,” Walker replied with a smirk.
Sam and Steve’s heads followed a direction you couldn’t see at first, their suppressed snickers giving away something. You lifted your gaze, catching the corner of the bar in the dim light.
There he was—Bucky. The messy dark strands of his slightly curled hair fell across his forehead, shoulders broad and relaxed. His jaw was sharp, catching what little light spilled from the overhead bulbs. And pressed against him, a girl tilted her head back, lips meeting his in a messy, intimate kiss that left no room for subtlety.
Your stomach twisted.
The image seared itself into your mind, but you couldn’t look away. Every detail pulled your gaze—the way his hands pressed into the small of her back, fingers gripping the fabric of her shirt as his mouth claimed hers. Your head spun, a dull vertigo settling in as the faux beer in your stomach churned.
He shifted slightly, tilting them toward the light, and you caught a clearer glimpse of her. Her ponytail had loosened, strands falling carelessly around her face, but it was a single feature that froze you mid-breath: she wore large, round glasses—eerily reminiscent of your own.
“She kind of looks like you,” Walker teased, elbowing you lightly with his beer.
“You’re only saying that because of the glasses,” Wanda rolled her eyes, glancing at you with a smirk. “Looks like Bucky’s not exactly torn up about Sharon, huh?”
“Yeah…” The word escaped in a low, almost hollow whisper, your throat tight as your gaze stayed fixed on the corner where they kissed.
They had made their way to the bar, the noise and flashing lights pulling you out of the daze that had kept your eyes locked on Bucky and the girl. Wanda, glued to her phone, suddenly bit her lip and leaned toward you.
“Hey,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music. “I’m gonna sneak back to our dorm—tell the group I got sick, okay?”
“Oh, sure,” you nodded. Wanda had looked out for you all night; the least you could do was return the favor. She squeezed your hand briefly before slipping away, melting into the crowd unnoticed.
Left to your own devices, you turned back toward the table—only to find Bucky fully settled in, Darcy draped across his lap.
“Who’s this, Buck?” Steve slurred, smirking.
Bucky cleared his throat, shifting slightly to face her. “Oh, this is… uh—”
“Darcy,” the girl supplied, frowning.
“Right. Darcy,” he repeated, the faintest shrug accompanying his words.
You couldn’t stop the tightening in your chest at the sheer, effortless disrespect of the display. Fingers curling around your bottle, you lifted it to your lips, silently thanking Wanda for giving you something to hold onto as the words lodged in your throat.
Sam tried to make conversation, clearly noting that you were stuck at the far end of the table with no one to engage with—until Walker shouted across the room that shots were available at the bar. Your mind immediately raced: maybe this was your chance to slip away unnoticed, especially with the person you were technically here to “console” clearly thriving in the chaos.
Nat and Steve had disappeared somewhere—probably somewhere more private—and Walker was tugging Sam toward the bar, leaving you stranded across from Bucky. He was completely absorbed in Darcy, who wobbled slightly in her seat, her attention clearly less steady than his.
“Surprised to see you out,” he said casually, eyes flicking toward you for the barest moment.
You straightened in your chair, brow arched. “Oh, so this is you acknowledging my presence, finally?”
Bucky tilted his head, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You waved a hand dismissively. “Forget it.”
“What are you mad at me for, Specs?”
You blinked, caught off guard. The words lingered in the air like a challenge you didn’t have an answer for.
Why were you mad?
Sure, he wasn’t doing anything objectively wrong—he hadn’t insulted you, he hadn’t done anything—but it wasn’t about that. It was the way he always made you feel like you were both invisible and entirely on display at the same time. The way he could be infuriatingly confident in a room full of chaos, while you were left measuring your own reactions. It was maddening… and somehow, entirely distracting.
And there was no way to articulate that into words that made sense.
“I’d have to care about you to be mad, Barnes.”
“Then what are you doing here with my friends?” His voice was sharp, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it that made your chest tighten.
“Not everything revolves around you,” you spat, teeth gritted. “Your friends are also my roommates, in case you forgot—who convinced me to come out because they thought you were having a tough time, which clearly isn’t the case.”
Darcy shifted awkwardly, her gaze flicking between the two of you. She coughed, then slowly stood. “Uh… I’m gonna leave you two to whatever this is.”
“Darla—or, fuck,” Bucky called after her, lips pursing as she tossed a middle finger over her shoulder.
“Nice,” you muttered under your breath, deadpan. You rolled your eyes, letting the exasperation settle over you. “Real nice.”
He frowned, shifting in his seat. “Would you quit fucking judging me? Some of us aren’t having the best week,”
“Well excuse me if I couldn’t exactly tell—we witness your girlfriend cheating on you and you want to go fight the guy but then are cracking jokes two seconds later; then here you are making out with some stranger,”
“Darla isn’t a stranger,” He argued.
“Oh my god,”
You stood, tugging your purse over your shoulder, and headed for the exit. The thrum of the bar faded behind you, replaced by the crisp bite of the night air. Relief washed over you—until his voice cut through the quiet.
“What’s your problem?”
You clenched your teeth, forcing your legs to keep moving down the sidewalk toward the main campus. You didn’t dare look back, though your heart rate betrayed the mix of irritation and something else you couldn’t name.
His footsteps pounded behind you, groaning in frustration. “Would you fucking slow down?”
“Stop following me.”
“I’m not following you, I’m walking back to the same campus as you,” he argued, tone dumbly defensive.
“That doesn’t require talking to me,” you shot back.
Before you could step past him, his hand closed around your forearm—echoing the grip you’d used two nights ago—and yanked you to face him. Your chest tightened as your eyes locked with his, taking in the intensity there, the faint gloss of alcohol in his gaze making him feel both reckless and unreadable. For the first time tonight, there was no smirk, no quip—just him, standing too close, expectant, and maddeningly unyielding.
“What’s got your panties in a twist, huh?” His voice was low, teasing—but with an edge that made your stomach clench.
“You!” You finally snapped. “One minute, you’re insulting me, the next you’re letting me in and being nicer because Nat told you to, but then you don’t tell them I was with you when you saw Sharon—I feel like I’m losing my mind, Barnes.”
“She told you about that?”
“Yeah! That’s why I even came tonight—and then you’re making out with some girl who basically looks like me!”
A slow smirk slid across his lips, and his tongue darted out to swipe at them. “What, Specs, you’re saying you wish that was you?”
You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “This is what I mean—you’re too busy being an asshole to be real about anything, Barnes.”
He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. “You want to talk about ‘real,’ huh? What about you?”
“What isn’t real about me?” you shot back, crossing your arms and digging in your heels.
He tilted his head, eyes sharp. “You hide behind your books like they’re a shield, but you’re just as desperate to fit in as the rest of us. You just won’t admit it.”
“Whatever, Barnes. You’re the one with the girlfriend you didn’t even care about.”
He shrugged, calm as ever, voice low and steady. “If I didn’t care, then why are you so shocked that I’m fine?”
Your chest tightened. The words should’ve annoyed you, but instead, a small jolt of something—confusion, disbelief, maybe even jealousy—hit you like a sucker punch. You had expected anger, regret, maybe even a hint of shame. But he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t even fazed.
Your fingers curled into your sleeves, nails biting into the fabric. You wanted to be mad. You wanted to scoff, roll your eyes, march away with dignity intact. But every fiber of you was aware of how easy he made it seem—how composed he was—and that made your own frustration feel weak, childish, and…unsettling.
You hated that he could make you feel anything—especially when he didn’t seem to feel a single thing himself.
“Honestly… just leave me alone, okay?” You shook your head, frustration spilling through your words. “Clearly we can’t coexist. I’ll stay away from your friends, we’ll just get the story done and then ask Pepper to work independently.”
If you had been paying closer attention, you might have noticed the way his eyes flickered—an almost imperceptible lift of his brows, the fraction of a second his mouth parted as he drew in a breath. In the heat of your argument, you’d moved closer than either of you realized, chests brushing ever so slightly.
He looked down at you, expression unreadable. That fleeting surprise in his gaze shifted almost instantly, replaced by a sly, satisfied smirk.
“Couldn’t agree more,”
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A/N: OOOOOO we gettin somewhere hehe
Main tag list: @flockoff-featherface @avgdestitute @unificsation @the-salty-asian
My only piece of advice to girls and young women is that you have to become financially independent no matter what it takes. Do whatever you need to do to become financially independent in this world and don’t ever let it go for anybody.
Summary: You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Warnings / Tags: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, avengers au, breakfast club vibes?, bff!bob, cheerleader!nat/wanda , football!sam/steve/walker, emo!ava, freshman!peter, Bucky is an asshole like actually, slow-ish burn, tension, inspired by @opheliabbarnes
Word Count: 4.9k
Series Masterlist
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“How do you not know Bucky Barnes?”
Bob’s tone was feather-light but edged with disbelief as he ripped open a pack of Command Strips, lining them up with obsessive neatness, like each one was a tiny soldier awaiting orders.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he was a campus celebrity,” you scoffed, wobbling precariously on one foot atop your desk as you tried to flatten a poster against the wall. “Is that straight?”
He glanced up, one brow arched. “Straight enough. But seriously, you didn’t connect the dots?”
“I did once I saw him. Pepper only said ‘Bucky.’ In the field, he was just ‘Barnes.’ Never knew those two names lived in the same body.”
“Typically how names work, yeah.”
“Bob, I invited you over to help me decorate, not to roast my IQ.”
He smirked, arranging another row of strips with surgeon-like precision. “Fine. Then I’ll roast your music taste. Putting Pierce the Veil and Sabrina Carpenter next to each other? Sacrilege.”
“To which one?”
“You know which one.”
“God forbid a woman contain multitudes, Bob.”
“Sabrina deserves her own shrine, actually.”
You laughed, smoothing the paper to the wall, praying it wouldn’t peel off at 3 a.m. and maim you in your sleep. “Still can’t believe you’re a closeted pop princess fan.”
“No one will ever believe you.”
“I know. You’re evil.”
It had been a few days since the first class, most of your time swallowed by trying to wrangle syllabi, readings, and half-finished prompts into some kind of order. Half of you was grateful to get ahead. The other half was haunted by the pitch deadline looming over you like a storm cloud, heavy and inevitable.
Bucky hadn’t reached out about the assignment. And you hadn’t either. He probably didn’t even save your number.
Nat and Wanda had let it slip that their group had gone out a few times since—him included. So it wasn’t like he was busy. You, on the other hand, were drowning.
“Should I text him?” you blurted out.
Bob, cross-legged on your rug, furrowed his brows. “And just so we’re on the same page—text who?”
“Bob.” You groaned. “Barnes, obviously.”
“Right, about the pitch.” He plucked out a pretzel. “Do you even have any ideas?”
“No,” you admitted, fidgeting with the spine of the magazine in your lap. “Kind of something I was hoping to brainstorm with my partner.”
“Hey, I get it—I’m partnered with the guy’s best friend.”
“Wait—did Nat seriously bribe you to switch?”
“She offered me fifty bucks.”
You barked out a laugh. “Should’ve taken it.”
“Pepper would’ve caught on and nuked our grade. She doesn’t play when it comes to the paper.”
You rolled your eyes. “So how is it, working with star quarterback Steve Rogers?”
“He’s not bad.” Bob shrugged. “Little dim, but he actually had a good idea for our pitch. We went with his.”
“What was it?”
“Nope.” He tossed a pretzel in the air and caught it in his mouth. “Not giving you freebies.”
“As if I’d steal something a jock came up with,” you scoffed.
Bob smirked. “Your partner is literally a jock.”
“Don’t remind me.”
You sighed, finally reaching over to your nightstand. Your phone lit up in your hand, the screen reflecting your hesitation back at you. You unlocked it, thumb hovering over the pitifully short thread labeled simply ‘Barnes’. One single message sent. One single message received. A conversation that barely counted as one at all.
You: Hey this pitch is due next class…we should prob meet to work on it
“What is he even doing in newspaper, anyway?” you muttered, balancing your phone on your knee. “He clearly doesn’t care about taking it seriously.”
“Pepper’s tight with the football coach,” Bob shrugged. “Maybe they figured it’d be an easy grade. Joke’s on them.”
“Pepper’s a harsh grader?”
Bob barked out a laugh. “You could say that.”
Your phone buzzed.
Barnes: Fine
“Fine,” you echoed under your breath. “Guess we’ll be working on it after all.” You typed quickly:
You: Want to meet at the cafe?
“Did he text you back?” Bob asked, halfway through another handful of trail mix.
The phone buzzed again.
Barnes: No lol can’t b seen w u in public
The words knocked the air from your lungs, sharp and mean. “He’s such an ass,” you hissed, shoving the phone toward Bob.
Bob scanned it, eyebrows raised. “Damn.”
Your thumbs flew over the screen.
You: Ok asshole where would you like to meet then?
You tossed the phone down beside you. “If this pitch doesn’t kill me, I might just kill him myself.”
Bob smirked. “This sounds like something I should report.”
You waved him off, eyes narrowing at the typing bubble flickering in and out—appearing, disappearing, like he couldn’t decide how much of an ass he wanted to be. Finally, it landed.
Asshole: I’ll j come to your dorm bruh
The new contact name glowing across your Lock Screen made you snort. For a second, it almost felt like a win—until you read the actual words.
You: What?? Can’t we just do the library
Two pings in quick succession:
Asshole: R u illiterate? Please refer to this text
You rolled your eyes at the jab as he replied to his own previous text.
Asshole: Steve dropped Nat off the other day so ik where it is. B there soon
You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Now he’s coming here.”
Bob chuckled, already dusting pretzel crumbs and dried glue off his jeans. “That escalated quickly.”
He slung his bag over his shoulder, grinning. “I wish you the best of luck, friend. Call me if you decide to jump.”
You walked Bob out of your dorm, pausing when your eyes landed on the wreck of your common space. The couch cushions were still askew from last night, when Nat and Wanda had dragged you out of hiding for a late RuPaul marathon. The sink was crowded with half-rinsed cereal bowls—evidence of their 6am cheer practice escape.
Why did it matter?
You didn’t need to impress him.
Still, your pulse quickened at the thought of him standing in this room, eyes skimming over every flaw. His stare had that effect—sharp, unrelenting, like he was grading you on a rubric you hadn’t studied for.
And even if he was, who cared? It wasn’t your job to measure up to Bucky Barnes.
A guy like him probably kept score in categories that meant nothing to you anyway—sex appeal, charm, Friday-night glitter glued onto the world’s largest pep-rally sign.
Your categories were different. Academic achievement. Research. Essays polished until they gleamed.
Screw glitter.
You straightened one of the couch cushions anyway. What did he mean by ‘soon?’ Soon was subjective. Soon could mean ten minutes or forty-five. Or, judging by the sender, could mean never.
A knock on the door made you jump. Okay, you thought, soon from Barnes means two minutes.
Your feet dragged you to the door like they were betraying you, each step a reluctant march. Fingers closed around the knob, tugging it open.
And there he was.
Leaning against the frame like he owned it, one arm braced lazily against the wood, expression dipped in boredom, that damn letterman jacket slung across his shoulders like armor.
“That was quick,” you said flatly, voice stripped of anything but monotone.
“I was in the neighborhood.” His brows arched, a smirk tugging at his mouth as his gaze slid past you into the room. “Gonna let me in, Specs?”
“Do I have to?”
“If you actually want to get this stupid pitch done, then yeah.”
With a huff, you stepped aside, body tilting just enough for him to brush past. He didn’t hesitate—never did—just crossed the threshold like it was already his space.
That’s when it hit you. A fleeting scent trailing in his wake—sandalwood cut with sweat. Earthy, sharp, alive. The kind of smell that filled a room without asking permission.
“Which one is yours,” His voice snapped you out of the traitorous activity from your nostrils. His gaze drifted down the hall, skimming the line of open doors until it snagged on yours—lingering just long enough to make your stomach knot. “The one that looks like it couldn’t afford curtains?”
Your lips pressed into a hard line. You weren’t a stranger to the ‘poor kid’ jokes, but hearing it from him hit differently—sharper, more cutting.
“Bold talk from the guy whose biggest asset is polyester sleeves.”
He turned his head toward you slowly, like a predator catching unexpected resistance. His stare lingered—calculating, unreadable—before one brow ticked upward. Shock, maybe. Or respect.
“She bites back.”
“Yeah, well, whatever,” you muttered, the words barely audible as your pulse hammered. You brushed past him, tugging at the frayed cuffs of your jacket sleeves, ushering him toward your room—the one with no curtains, exactly as he’d teased.
His gaze swept the space the way searchlights cut through a foggy night, until it landed on your doorway. He stepped inside, eyes scanning the scene.
“It looks like a craft fair threw up in here,” he said, pausing on the scattered magazines and the cut-out letters bleeding across the floor.
“I was… in the middle of decorating when you said you’d come by.”
Something about the way he stared at your walls—at the posters and taped-up fragments of you—felt invasive. Like he wasn’t just looking, he was peeling back layers you hadn’t agreed to show.
“I can see that.”
“Anyway,” you said quickly, throat dry, “should we get started?”
“Sure.”
And with a nonchalance that made your jaw clench, he hopped onto your twin bed. Shoes still on. Dirt pressed against the knit of your grandmother’s blanket. He lounged back against your pillow like he’d been here a hundred times before, one arm behind his head, the other tapping idly against his knee.
You froze in the doorway, pulse skittering. You’d never had a boy in your room—certainly not one this smug, this maddening. Not one who could violate your space so casually, like he owned it. Like he owned you.
You took a seat in your desk chair, clearing your throat as you opened your laptop. “Do you, uh, have any ideas for the pitch?”
“Something not boring,”
“Right,” You opened a blank Google doc. “Naturally. So, any topics? I was thinking maybe something about the evolution of censorship in schools? Like… the history of banned books, the reasoning behind it, who decides what we can and can’t read. It’s relevant, it’s layered, it forces people to think.”
“You’re kidding, right? You actually want us to turn in a homework assignment disguised as a newspaper pitch?”
You huff, “It’s not a homework assignment. It’s social commentary. It’s timely. Do you even know how many books got banned across the country this year alone?”
“And you think the average high schooler’s gonna give a damn about dusty old book lists and policy memos?” He scoffs, nonchalantly inspecting his fingernails. “Specs, they’ll be asleep before we hit the second paragraph.”
You glare at him defiantly. “Sorry for trying to suggest something with actual importance instead of pandering to your gossip rag instincts.”
“Newsflash: importance doesn’t sell. Scandal does. You want headlines, not history lessons.”
“Fine,” You threw your hands up. “What’s your grand idea, then?”
“Okay, my turn. Picture this: a spread on the underground dating lives of the football team. Who’s sneaking out after curfew, who’s breaking up before playoffs, who’s hooking up with cheerleaders. You want readers? Boom. Instant bestseller.”
You stare in disbelief. “That’s not journalism, that’s a CW pilot.”
“And yet—it’s the kind of thing people actually want to read.” He shrugged, “You think they’ll line up for an essay on censorship? Nah. But give them a little scandal, a little drama…” He snaps his fingers, “Sold out before the end of the week.”
Your voice was sharp, almost laughing at the thought. “Do you even hear yourself? You’d rather write some trashy exposé than cover something that actually matters.”
Bucky leans back on his elbows, a smirk evident on his face. “Trashy sells, Specs. Importance doesn’t.”
“Maybe that’s why no one takes you seriously.”
If the comment hit him, he didn’t show it. His gaze flicked around the room, landing briefly on a crooked poster, then back on you. “You’re the one with magazine letters taped to your wall.”
“And what’s on yours? Some dumb flag that says Saturday is for the boys?” Your voice dripped with sarcasm, arms crossed tight.
He rolled his eyes, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “Next time we have to work on this shit, we’re doing it at mine. My eyes hurt from staring at all your… chaos.” He gestured vaguely at the walls, at the scattered magazines and taped-up letters.
“I don’t get why we can’t just go to the library,” you huffed, tugging at a loose thread on your sleeve.
“I told you, I can’t be seen with you in public.” His tone was casual, but something in the way his jaw clenched betrayed the slightest edge of irritation.
“You’re an actual asshole, you know that?”
“Maybe—but I’m really just saving myself the lecture from my girlfriend.” He scoffed, adjusting the boba-shaped pillow under his shoulder like he belonged here, claiming the space.
“Girlfriend?” The word slipped out before you could stop it, and it felt like your chest contracted at the thought.
“Yeah. Sharon. She’s the captain of the cheer team.”
“Well, isn’t that a cliché?” The words were sharp, but you couldn’t hide the flicker of curiosity.
He shifted, leaning back against the wall, the smirk softening just enough to show the faintest trace of something real. “She’ll just get pissed if she finds out we’re working together. So I’m saving myself the earful. If that’s okay with you, Specs.”
You exhaled, caught somewhere between exasperation and the strange awareness that he wasn’t entirely the persona he projected. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air between you charged, even with the boba pillow tucked under his arm. “Doesn’t seem healthy,”
“I don’t think I asked for relationship advice from someone with a One Direction poster across their bed,”
“Wasn’t advice, Barnes, I could give a fuck less what you do in your free time. Also, One Direction can hear you, you know.”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of amusement hidden behind the mask he wore so well. Instead, he cleared his throat, the sound oddly deliberate in the quiet room, and shifted his focus.
“So,” he said, voice flat, “let’s go with my idea.”
“So how’d you leave it?” Bob asked, lazily flipping through the pages of an old almanac, elbows leaning on the table.
You were seated across from him in the library, tapping the pencil in your hand against your notebook. “With more arguing, then he had to get to football practice. So, in simpler terms, we’re going nowhere.”
“I mean—he isn’t wrong, flashier stories do tend to make the front page.”
“Don’t side with him.”
“I’m not,” Bob groaned. “But maybe you could merge the two somehow?”
“Merge censorship and cheer politics.”
“Okay, yeah, I don’t know.”
You let out a soft sigh, eyes scanning the aisles of the library, packed with students rifling through books and swiping pages. Your attention was elsewhere—until movement at the far end of the sci-fi section caught your eye.
There he was. Barnes. Leaning casually against a bookcase, arm draped over the top like some alpha in a jungle, talking to a blonde in a cheer uniform. She was laughing—soft, bright, completely captivated by whatever he was saying.
Your stomach twisted. You could’ve sworn he didn’t even know the library existed this morning, and here he was, effortless and charming, making the entire quiet corner feel like it belonged to him.
You watched, heart thudding, as his smirk deepened with every word, the way he tilted his head and gestured casually with his free hand. You didn’t want to admit it, but a small, unbidden pang of curiosity—and maybe jealousy—slipped into your chest. What exactly was he saying to make her giggle like that?
No. You shook your head. That asshole wasn’t worth another thought. What really irritated you was that he was wasting his time with this instead of working on the pitch. Here you were, brainstorming ways to fuse your ideas—and there he was, probably brainstorming ways to fuse his tongue with hers.
“I thought I saw you,” Wanda’s melodic voice whispered in your ear as she dropped into the seat next to you. “And you’re Bob, right?”
“Y-Yeah, hey,” Bob replied, forcing a strained smile.
“How’s your pitches coming? Sam basically told me I was on my own to write ours.”
“It’s… terrible,” you muttered, tossing a nod toward the far end of the library. “My partner’s too busy shoving his tongue down a cheerleader’s throat over there.”
“Oh, Sharon?” Wanda scoffed. “Yeah, they’ve been off and on all summer. You can tell when they’re on—cheer practice full of smiles and rainbows. When they’re off… we run laps.”
“Seems like an ineffective way to condition,” you muttered, a half-smile tugging at your lips.
“Nat hates her. I don’t, exactly, but I also don’t love when Bucky brings her to Blip. She’s… not very fun.”
“Bucky seems to think so,” you blurted before thinking, and immediately scolded yourself inwardly. You didn’t care.
“Speaking of,” Wanda leaned forward, nudging your ribs. You opened your mouth to complain, but froze—because Sharon and Bucky’s eyes were on you.
“Hey, Bucky,” Wanda mused, bright as ever. “And Sharon.”
“Hey,” Sharon said, smirking at Wanda. “Cheer practice was insane this morning. Can’t believe Nat’s stunt group couldn’t land a single successful fly.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked between you and Bob, sharp and calculating as ever.
“Well, we were just working on our pitches for newspaper,” Wanda said, gesturing toward you and Bob. “Sharon, this is my roommate… and Bob.”
“Hey, I’m Bob,” he said, awkwardly offering a hand.
You forced a small smile. “Hey.”
“Right, well… we were just heading to the cafe, right, babe?” Sharon’s words cut through the tension as she leaned into Bucky.
Your eyes stayed on his, a quiet challenge cutting through the awkwardness of the encounter. You knew he would act like he didn’t know you—but that only made the small twist in your chest sharper when he actually did.
“Yeah… we’ll catch you later, Wanda,” Bucky said, his voice low but casual, just enough to make it sting. His eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second—a silent acknowledgment, unreadable, before he turned back to Sharon.
The look lingered longer than it should have, and you felt it even after he’d walked away, leaving a strange mix of irritation and… something else behind.
Sunday night. The pitch deadline loomed like a storm cloud, mere days away. You hadn’t reached out to Barnes since the library encounter, choosing instead to bury yourself in the pile of laundry on your bed while scribbling notes on the history of media literacy. The unit was quiet—your roommates were at Blip again, practically living there—leaving you alone with the hum of your own anxiety.
You never failed an assignment. And you weren’t about to start because of some jerk on the football team.
Finally, you grabbed your phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you typed the message, the words sharp and determined:
You: hey, let’s finish the pitch tonight
Your thumb hovered over “send,” a flicker of dread mixing with resolve. You hated needing him. Hated that part of the assignment meant relying on Barnes. But the alternative—failure—wasn’t an option.
Your thumb pressed “send,” and almost immediately, your phone buzzed.
Asshole: Fine. What’s ur genius plan, Specs?
You rolled your eyes.
You: Meet at my dorm. Bring your notes.
Asshole: Omw. Also I don’t take notes
A few minutes later, a firm knock at your door made your chest skip. You grabbed your notebook and opened it. There he was, standing in the hallway, hands shoved casually in his pockets, that smug, infuriating smirk in place.
“How do you always get here so fast?” you asked flatly.
“I’m just so eager to see you, Specs,” he drawled, eyes sweeping over your scattered notes and open notebooks. “Looks like chaos got a room upgrade since last time.”
You huffed, gripping a pen like a weapon. “Focus, Barnes. Pitch. Now.”
“Not in a friendly mood on this fine Sunday?”
“I will be when we finish this pitch,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
He hopped onto your twin bed again, letterman jacket stretching slightly as one arm slung behind his head.
“Do you make it a habit of throwing yourself onto girls’ beds without asking?”
“Typically, they beg me to. So… no.”
You grabbed a pen and flung it at him—maybe a little harder than necessary—then followed up with a notebook. “Here. Because my partner will take notes.”
“Wow, bossy, isn’t she?” His smirk grew, teasing. “What’s got your panties in a twist, Specs?”
“Will you stop calling me that?”
“Nope. Honestly, I forgot your name.”
You groaned, exasperation tumbling out as his laughter filled the room. “You’re such a dick.”
“And yet, here you are, letting me sit on your bed,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Didn’t let you,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I’d hardly let a man sit on my bed after pretending not to know me.”
The words hung there, heavier than you intended. Too late to take back, too honest in a way that made your chest twist. You hadn’t meant to let a flicker of your feelings slip through, and yet—there it was. A quiet, dangerous acknowledgment that maybe… he affected you more than you were willing to admit.
Bucky’s eyes caught yours, sharp and unreadable, like he’d sensed the unspoken weight behind the words. For a heartbeat, the teasing smirk softened, just enough to make your pulse betray you. Then, as if nothing had happened, he leaned back again, exuding that infuriating casual confidence.
“I told you, I’ll just get an earful later.”
“So because your girlfriend’s crazy, you get to let all human decency fall by the wayside?”
“That would require having any,” he shot back.
You scoffed. “Come on, Barnes. You weren’t born an asshole.”
“Look, sorry, okay? I didn’t want her giving Wanda a hard time at practice just for having a roommate whose name I know.”
“So… you were sparing Wanda?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, casual. “She’s my friend.”
“Well, would you look at that. He does have a heart.” You rolled your eyes. “Then why date her if she’s such a terror?”
His smirk returned, teasing. “Well… the sex is—”
“Don’t.” You cringed. “Finish that sentence. Forget I asked.”
“Well, what about you?” He tilted his head, smirk flickering with curiosity. “You and the other nerd looked cozy in the library before Wanda showed up.”
“Bob? We were just—” You squinted at him. “Wait… were you watching me in the library?”
“Did I see you in the library, where I also happened to be?” His scoff dripped with sarcasm. “Yes. Watching you implies I was interested in what you were doing.”
“Weren’t you, if you’re asking?”
“Can we just write the fucking pitch?”
You blinked, turning in your desk chair to open your laptop. “Sure thing.”
“I was thinking you’d just write it, and I’d make notes.”
“Uh, yeah, no. We’ll split it halfway.”
“Worth a shot.”
You huffed. “Are you allergic to trying, or something?”
“No. I try in things all the time. Just not things I don’t give a shit about.”
“Then why are you even in newspaper?” You fixed him with a pointed stare. “No one is forcing you to be here.”
“Are you sure about that?” His voice clipped, sharp, like a knife-edge between casual and serious.
“Well, is someone forcing you to be here?”
“Not your business, Specs.”
You shook your head, eyes rolling so hard you thought they’d get stuck. You weren’t sure why you even tried. “Fine, I don’t care anyway.”
“Could’ve fooled me,”
“Look,” You abruptly spoke, glasses slipping down your nose at the ferocity in which you looked at him. “We’re stuck working together, so for both of our sakes, can you just curb the dickhead comments at the door? I don’t want to be in this partnership any more than you do, trust me. But we don’t have a choice. So why don’t we just work on the pitch so you can get the fuck out?”
Bucky stared at you, a blank stare on his face. He blinked once, eyes dropping to where your chest slightly heaved from where your voice rose.
“Fine,”
“Fine,” You replied. “Okay, hear me out—front page, big splash. Title: Game of Influence: Who Controls the Story?”
Bucky raised an eyebrow from your bed, arms crossed. “Sounds… intense. What’s the angle?”
You leaned forward, excitement bubbling out despite his smirk. “We take the football team and the cheer squad—obviously the most visible students on campus—and explore how their image is controlled. Social media posts, yearbook coverage, even what gets mentioned in the morning announcements. Then, we tie it to censorship and media literacy: who decides what the student body actually sees, and why?”
“So… you want to write a front-page exposé on high school drama?”
“Yes! Not drama—power dynamics. Influence. The invisible hand guiding perception.”
He shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Specs, this is… boring. People don’t care about that. They care about touchdowns, trophies, and hot cheerleaders.”
“Barnes, that’s all you care about. Others—that’s a different story.”
He scoffed. “Honestly, no one’s reading a history-of-censorship tie-in between pep rallies and football games. Trust me.”
You leaned back, arms crossing. “You know what, Barnes? You’re exactly why this story needs to exist.”
He smirked, tilting his head. “You’re obsessed with this stuff, huh?”
“Passionate,” you corrected.
He laughed, low and teasing. “Fine. But if we don’t get the front page spot, I’m gonna be pissed at you.”
“Challenge accepted,” you shot back, the spark of rivalry—and maybe something else—flickering between you.
“We’re home!” Wanda’s voice boomed from the living room, spilling down the hall and straight into your room. Footsteps clattered behind her—heels striking wood—until she appeared in your doorway.
“Oh, hi Bucky! Nat, Steve, Bucky’s here!”
“Are you drunk?” you asked, closing your laptop with a snap.
“She definitely is,” Nat murmured from Wanda’s side, a smirk tugging at her lips as her gaze flicked to Bucky. “We were wondering where you slinked off to.”
“The scene was dead, and the nerd needed me to finish our pitch,” he said casually.
“Nerd has a name,” you muttered under your breath.
Nat hummed knowingly. “Sharon know you’re here?”
“No, Nat, and I’d prefer to keep it that way,” he added, his voice dipping low. For a moment, the thought that he was hiding this from her—the fact he was here, with you—made your stomach warm in a way that felt foreign and confusing.
“I’m gonna go,” he said abruptly, hopping off your bed. Without another word, he strode past you down the hall. You caught the faint sounds of Steve greeting him, then the front door clicking shut.
“She’s a bitch, anyway,” Nat murmured, a lazy smile on her face. “Sharon. He knows if she finds out about you, she’ll make your life a living hell.”
“What?” Your eyebrows knitted together.
“Yeah,” Wanda agreed, leaning against the doorway dramatically. “That’s definitely why he pretended not to know you in the library. Shielding you from Sharon’s wrath.” Nat and Wanda cracked up, the sound echoing in the hallway.
“You want to make mac and cheese?” Nat asked suddenly, breaking the tension.
“Oh my god, yes,” Wanda lit up. “You want some?”
“No, no, you guys go ahead,” you replied, watching them disappear into the kitchen.
Left alone, you sank back into your chair, processing everything. The way Bucky had suddenly scooted off, the subtle softening in his expression when you finally snapped, and Nat’s revelation about the library incident—shielding you from Sharon’s wrath.
You leaned back in your chair, letting your fingers drum against the edge of your desk, but your mind wasn’t on the rhythm—it was on him. Bucky Barnes. The guy who slammed into you on the quad, who texted you like an asshole, who somehow thought it was fine to plop himself on your bed without asking.
And yet… he’d spared you from Sharon. He’d pretended not to know you in the library, all to keep some cheerleader from making your life miserable.
Your stomach twisted. Why? Why would he care enough to do that, but not enough to actually act like a normal human being around you?
You shook your head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingered, stubborn. The warmth you’d felt when he’d softened for a second—it shouldn’t have meant anything. He was a jock. He dated the head cheerleader. He was cocky, selfish, probably had a playbook for charming people you’d never even hear about.
You scowled at your desk, frustrated with yourself. This wasn’t supposed to matter. He was your partner for a class project, that’s it. Nothing more. Your brain twisted itself in knots. You didn’t understand him.
And yet, somehow, a tiny, irritating part of you wanted to.
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“My belief is that art should not be comforting; for comfort, we have mass entertainment and one another. Art should provoke, disturb, arouse our emotions, expand our sympathies in directions we may not anticipate and may not even wish.”
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