Can u write an enemies to lovers fic of Grayson X reader??? Plsss!!
thank you for your request and I apologise for the delay in writing it, my request list has been mountainous for a little while now and this particular fic actually also had lots of rewrites before the final piece. It began as an academic rivals sort of thing, then became family-feud but finally ended with whatever this is. I’m praying you enjoy this 🤍🤍
title: we’re just project partners
pairing: grayson hawthorne x (first person) reader
synopsis: you’re partnered with the one person you hate to complete a project you love… but what if he’s not as bad as you thought
warnings: swearing, gray-bae is being a nasty little b-word (BUT ITS FOR THE PLOT OKAY)
a/n: I am alive!! It’s just taken me a week and a bit to post again, I’m writing three fics at once so this one just happened to be done first
taglist: @lovethornes @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @fleuriosa @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31 @loveinalocket
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I roll my eyes, eyeing the names on the board.
It just has to be him doesn’t it.
“There must be a mistake,” Grayson says. I turn my head to look at him, for once we can agree on something.
“No there is no mistake,” the professor tusks, “class dismissed.”
Everyone gets up and begins to pack their stuff, chatting about the project and their partners and various other things. It sucks when you have no classes with your friends, but it sucks even more when you get partnered with your rival for a project.
I’m about to walk out of the classroom when I hear my name.
“Y/n l/n, come back a moment!”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes, I just want to go home. I spin around and sluggishly walk back to the teacher’s desk where she stands and beside her is the infamous arrogant prat Grayson Hawthorne.
“You have to change it,” Grayson snaps quickly, his voice so insistent, so sharp. I look up to see he’s gesturing to our names beside one another’s. Classic Hawthorne. Thinks he can command people to do whatever he pleases just because he feels entitled enough to do so.
“What you gonna do, bribe her if she says no?” I scoff, arms folded.
They both ignore me but my lip still quirk upwards, proud of the pathetic joke I’d made, even if I was the only one who found it funny.
“There will be no changes Mr Hawthorne,” our professor replies sincerely.
“You don’t understand,” he shakes his head so vigorously I have to bite back a laugh, “I can’t work with her.”
“Well you’re going to have to,” she says, “this is 30% of your grade for the year.”
His eyes widen and he almost looks panicked. Almost. Nevertheless it amuses me to see the stoic, ironclad blonde crack for mere seconds.
“Professor please,” he says so desperately he’s practically begging, which I’d always thought was too beneath him to do, “she’s impossible.”
“I’m impossible?” I raise my eyebrows.
He rolls his eyes and turns back to our teacher, “anyone but her. I’ll do it by myself if I have to.”
“I’ve told you once and I will only repeat myself one more time, there will be no changes made,” she says too calmly, “I don’t see the problem, you are both excellent students with some of the highest marks I’ve seen in my time. You need to get past whatever this little tiff is and move on. Bounce off of each other, enlighten each other, create a show stopping presentation.”
Such a teacher answer to give. Played off to be inspirational, really just a nice way of saying get on with it or you fail.
“On the contrary Miss, I think Hawthorne here is the only one kicking up a fuss, I haven’t uttered a word,” I point out.
“That may be true but don’t you think I can see the vicious looks aimed at both him and me?” she asks, accusation in her tone.
So maybe the dirty looks weren’t as sly as I’d thought them to be. Still, it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie through my teeth, sweetened smile to sugarcoat it further.
“Perhaps it should be discussed in a detention then, I’m free after school tomorrow,” she proposes, her smile even sweeter than mine.
“No, no, that isn’t necessary,” I say quickly, “I’m suddenly horribly aware of the looks I’ve been giving.”
I’m not the kind of girl who gets detentions, actually I’d never gotten one in my life and I didn’t intend to change that. My record was perfect, it was going to stay perfect. My professor, annoyingly, knew that a bit too well.
“Good, I suppose no detention then,” she says, “and what about you Mr Hawthorne, would you like to discuss your stubborn means to switch partners in a detention with me?”
“No thank you,” he grits through his teeth, his jaw nearly set in stone. I fight back a grin at his irritation.
“Challenges are good for the mind,” she smiles, “and I have a feeling you two will very much challenge one another. You once told me you liked a challenge, no?”
“I do,” Grayson nods slowly, then side glances at me, “but not of this kind.”
I think it was meant to be an insult towards me but it was so poor it didn’t even come close to mildly hurting me so I don’t bother to respond.
“Try something new, branch out a little,” our professor shrugs, “and who knows, you may even enjoy each other’s company.”
“That is very optimistic,” I scoff at the same time as Grayson says, “that will never happen.”
“Only time will tell,” she replies with a whimsical look in her eyes, “good luck.”
We exit the classroom in the coldest of silences. Any colder and we would’ve had an ice palace with an interesting rendition of ‘let it go’. I vote Grayson plays Elsa.
He actually barely spares me a glance, with his jaw all clenched and tightened. I wonder at one point if he’s breathing. He’s so tense, the feeling smothers the air around me, suffocating any sense of relaxation. I turn to leave the building.
“Where are we going?” he questions, too assertive for my liking.
“I’m going home,” I tell him bluntly.
He furrows his brows, “why?”
“To get changed,” I deadpan.
“Why?” he repeats. I try to read his emotions but they’re not clear enough to define. He’s accustomed to hiding them.
I stare at him, “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“Fine, we’ll meet here in 15 minutes,” he decides.
I don’t reply as I turn on my heels and walk away.
***
After getting changed and piecing together all of the things I might need to study, all my notes and books and highlighters and pens, I walked back over to our ‘meeting place’. As I approach Grayson is already stood there with a sour expression on his face. Of course he’s already there.
“You’re late,” he tells me, his voice so bitter I wonder how many lemons it would take to rival it.
“No I’m exactly on time,” I sneer, flicking my phone in his face.
“It’s been 15 minutes and 43 seconds, so technically you’re 43 seconds late,” he smirks. I almost feel sorry for him because I can see how proud he feels after saying this, sense the smugness burning in his chest.
“Did you count?” I try extremely hard to suppress my laughter.
“Of course not, I wouldn’t waste my breath on that,” he rolls his eyes, then pauses slightly, “… I set a timer.”
“Of course you did,” I purse my lips with a sigh.
His screws his face up, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s supposed to mean you’re a weird person who would time someone going home to get changed,” I shrug, attempting to walk past him.
Talk about being late, when he was the one stood here chattering on about meaningless subjects. He ignores the comment and briskly stands in front of me to block me from walking any further.
“What are you wearing anyway?” he asks, looking down on me with great distaste with all but his eyes.
“Clothes,” I deadpan, staring down at my much loved and slightly over worn band tee-shirt.
“They’re awful,” he tells me bluntly.
“Was that meant to hurt me?” I raise an eyebrow. I mean sure, it hurt a little, but I didn’t actually care what he thought. Or I shouldn’t at least.
“You could’ve picked something a little nicer to wear in public,” he continues, so cut-throat and cold.
I look directly into his mellowed silver eyes and wonder how someone with such soft, inviting eyes could be so sharp and jagged with the words he uses.
“Worried I’ll ruin your street credit,” I tease, “sully your good name with my sports leggings and band t-shirt?”
“I’m just surprised at your lack of care for your appearance,” he replies, a slight discomfort worming its way through his features. It makes me smile a little.
“I just think I’m not as fixated on it as you, I mean what’s with your outfit, James Bond? Do you own anything that’s not a suit and tie,” I ask.
“Matter-o-factly I do,” he replies bluntly as if to end the conversation.
So of course I continue it, “so do you just stare at those clothes then, hanging in your walk in wardrobe.”
His eyes snap up and his stare is suddenly so piercing it hurts to hold eye contact, “how do you know I have a walk in wardrobe,” he practically spits, in a defensive tongue.
I snort, “that was a joke, but yeesh rich boy you’ve got it all.”
“Rich boy, how original,” Grayson comments.
“I’ve got more,” I shoot back with that smile I know makes his blood boil and skin singe.
“Spare me them,” he responds, “sweetheart.”
A forbidden fluttering occurs in the pit of my stomach, it’s as if eight hundred butterflies have decided to dance a jive there. Some feeling between guilt and shame settles in my chest. The word sweetheart shouldn’t make me feel anything, least of all from the mouth of Grayson Hawthorne.
But it was the way he said it, so softly, so smoothly, the word just rolled off of his tongue like he’d called me it for years. It almost sounded nice. The guilt weighs heavier on my chest and I snap out of it. I don’t feel anything. For anyone. Least of all him.
“Awww you’ve got a nickname for me too Goldilocks,” I reply with a laugh to bury the truth.
“Did you not hear the spare me part?” he tusks, beginning to walk.
I shake my head, walking a little faster than usual to keep up with his strides, “sorry I usually don’t listen when someone irrelevant talks.”
He scowls at me and I wink back.
“Did your face get stuck in a permanent scowl as a child or were you just born unhappy?” I cock my head to the side and narrow my eyes.
“Do you ever shut up?” Grayson asks flatly.
“My therapist told me not to hold back,” I shrug.
“Doesn’t that explain a lot,” he says dryly, shooting me a look that makes me feel inferior. I go to bite my tongue, but ask myself when I’m trying to hold back. I don’t owe him anything.
I stare at him, “don’t look so disgusted blondie, just because you’re too up yourself to admit you need help doesn’t mean all of us are.”
“I don’t need help,” Grayson replies, each word candid and dull.
Something in me almost feels sorry for him. Did he really think he didn’t need help? Did he really feel that alone and isolated? I wanted, in that moment, to reach out and be there for him. Then I remember who he is.
“Whatever you say,” I sigh.
“We’re working at my house,” he responds abruptly, as we get to the end of the street.
I fold my arms and raise my eyebrows, “says who?”
“Me,” he shrugs.
“And who are you to tell me where I’m working?” I ask.
“I’m your partner and I’m making a decision,” he presses on, stubbornly. Little does he know, I’m twice as stubborn and I’m not going to back down.
“I don’t think you really understand how this whole project thing works,” I say.
“I’ve done plenty of projects and I can very much assure you, I understand what I’m doing,” he grumbles back, clearly annoyed that he isn’t getting his way this time. Someone has to teach him I suppose.
“Oh great,” I smile sickeningly sweetly, “then we’re not working at yours.”
“Why on earth not?” he screws up his face as if I’ve just told him I want to skin a cat alive.
“I don’t want to,” I reply simply.
“Well I do,” he argues back.
“That’s a shame,” I shrug softly, leaving him with no option.
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his perfect hair, “you are insufferable.”
“That the worst you got Hawthorne?” I giggle a little, turning left to walk down the pathway.
“And impossible,” he says, following me.
“Oh you wound me,” I say hyperbolically, putting I hand in my head and feigning a dizzy spell.
Grayson rolls his eyes, he’s done it so many times now I’m worried they might get stick here soon, “can we just work?”
“Where?” I shoot him a lopsided grin.
He sighs, most likely suppressing some very colourful language, “why don’t you decide seen as my ideas oppose you.”
“Much like your entire personality,” I let him know.
“My personality is fine,” he replies, probably trying to soothe his rapidly declining pride under that suit of his.
“Mhmmm,” I nod sarcastically, “and I have a unicorn that shits cupcakes called Craig.”
“Really?” he wrinkles his nose, “profanities?”
“Oh no is it too beneath the great Grayson Hawthorne to say fuck every now and then,” I laugh.
He tenses and mutters something under his breath. I don’t quite hear the words but you can see he’s fuming. It ignites something in me, a spark. I like seeing him furious. I really like it.
“Where do you want to work?” he asks me, grey eyes a little too distracting for my liking.
“The library,” I tell him, my answer almost immediate.
He tries to mask his horror but fails miserably, “in public?”
“You’re not going to get cholera,” I snort.
“Can’t we just work somewhere nicer,” he complains.
“The library is nice,” I tell him, “and they have a coffee stand outside and I want coffee so that’s where we’re going.”
“And you call me demanding,” he mutters underneath us breath.
***
We walk to the library bickering about how fast he walks and how slow I apparently walk. In my personal opinion I think he was walking fast on purpose, he obviously disagreed.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” I ask him, it now only just dawning on me that he was leading the way yet he didn’t know where the library was.
“I’m not an idiot,” Grayson spits back, nose in the air, posture upright and powerful.
He always carries himself like that as if he’s saviour of the world and we should all bow down to kiss his presumably pedicured feet.
“Are you sure?” I tease him.
“Certain,” he snaps regimentally.
“We’re here,” I say halting conversation to walk up to the coffee stand.
“I knew that,” he mumbled.
He glances at the cart, looking it up and down like it needs to be judged and inspected to his high standards.
“What is this?” he interrogates me.
“It’s called a coffee cart in english but in rich boy it might be called something else, I haven’t studied the language yet,” I respond coolly.
“Is this even safe to drink?” Grayson says, some variant of worry wavering in his tone.
“It’s coffee,” I deadpan, “not raw chicken.”
He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner.
“I like it and I’m getting some,” I tell him bluntly, “you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”
“No,” he checks his watch, “I need a coffee, this’ll have to do.”
I don’t bother wasting my breath to respond but make a mental note that maybe the Hawthorne wasn’t so different from me, addicted to coffee.
“Hey Jack,” I wave, walking closer to the cart.
I’d known Jack for a good eight years of my life, he was my rock. The smile in endless clouds of grey, the light at the end of the tunnel and of course, most importantly, the coffee provider to my caffeine deprived being.
“Bonsoir sunshine what can I get you,” he grins his usual grin at me, the witty mischief-ridden grin is known since I was nine years old. His eyes slide over Grayson judgementally though when he realises I’m watching him he immediately flicks back to his job.
“The usual of course,” he makes sure.
“You come here often?” Grayson raises an eyebrow, interrupting my answer.
“Just every day,” Jack says, before I can get a word out. I shoot him a look.
Grayson looks at me, “every day?”
“I really like coffee,” I explain with an exaggerated hand gesture.
“Coffee is bad for your health,” he responds almost immediately.
I suppress the hundreds of colourful words exploding in my mind settling for a more well-mannered reply, “well it’s good for my mental stability.”
“She’s addicted now,” Jack adds, “she’ll get withdrawal symptoms without it.”
“Shaking, sweating, you name it, I get it,” I continue.
“That sounds like a serious health condition,” Grayson says, his eyebrows pinching together. It was so soft I could’ve mistakened the expression for concern. But of course, why would he be concerned for me. I must’ve been reading it wrong.
“Hence me buying this coffee,” I tell him.
“Blueberry muffin, on the house,” Jack offers me, as if he didn’t every Friday.
We had a deal, I was allowed to take a free blueberry muffin that came out of his earnings if he kept up to date with his school work. Jack had always had a problem with handing things in on time and concentrating and school wasn’t his strong point. He hated going and was so close to dropping out too many times. That was until I made him stay. I talked him into it and he promises me he doesn’t regret it. It seems this week, he’s turned in all assignments on time.
I smiled, “you mean on the cart?”
“Sure whatever,” he brushes it off, “anything else?”
His eyes dare to skim over Grayson again though he is quick to come back and meet my gaze, his cheeks flush like he’s a child who’s done something wrong.
I turn to Grayson, “what do you want?”
“I’ll pay for myself,” he says shortly, looking slightly offended at my question.
I screw up my nose at him, “I wasn’t going to offer to pay for you asshole.”
“Play nice, sunshine,” Jack teases.
I glare at him and his smile quickly fades.
“You can’t play nice with that,” I glower.
He shoots me a look, the turns to Grayson, “what can I get you sir?”
“It’s not the evening,” Grayson replies.
Jack’s eyes are lost in a blanket of confusion, “sorry?”
“It’s not the evening it’s the afternoon,” he clarifies, as if it made the meaning of his sentence any clearer.
“You’ve lost me sir,” he shakes his head with furrowed brows.
“You said bonsoir but it isn’t the evening,” he chastises, “it’s afternoon and therefore you should’ve said bon après-midi.”
Jack turns to me, bewildered, “is he on drugs?”
“Probably,” I shrug. I wouldn’t be surprised if the rich kid had private access to that sort of stuff, he probably had the lawyers to cover it up as well.
“Are you…” Jack hesitates, “…you know?”
He makes an odd gesture with two fingers as I confuse to stare at him blankly.
“No I don’t know,” I reply.
“Are you with him,” he asks, “romantically.”
I almost choke on my own spit as I bark out a laugh, “oh god no.”
For a fraction of a second a look of relief passes over Jack’s features. Something uninvited tugs at my insides but I quickly ignore it.
“You’d be lucky,” Grayson scoffs.
“Oh he fancies himself,” Jack grins, clearly amused.
“Yeah it’s an ego thing, his is massive,” I explain.
“No it’s not,” the blonde insists.
“In denial as well,” Jack smirks, folding his arms.
“Always,” I say, then turn to Grayson, “now what do you want to drink because if you don’t tell him now I’m taking mine and ditching you.”
“Black coffee, no cream, no sugar,” the answer was instant, rehearsed.
“Ooo you made a hardcore friend,” Jack snickers, I want to slap him.
“We are not friends,” I make clear.
“Yeesh okay,” he raises his eyebrows, lifting his hands up as if he’d been convicted of a crime.
“And let’s be realistic here, rich boy probably has a massive sweet tooth and is too embarrassed to let people know,” I say with a sly smirk.
“Oh one hundred percent!” Jack nods, handing me my cup and muffin.
“I do not,” Grayson mutters, but loudly enough for us both to hear.
“That’s confirmed then,” Jack winks at me.
I giggle as he hands Grayson his drink. We exchange payment and then comes the dreaded point where I actually have to leave to get work done. Usually coming to the library for me was getting to see Jack and getting my coffee, not the actual going to library part.
“See you tomorrow,” I smiled sadly.
“Hopefully without thunder face here,” Jack says.
“I can hear you,” Grayson says curtly, before taking a sip of his coffee.
“I know,” Jack shrugs.
“I hope so too,” I reply to his previous comment, “bye!”
“Bye,” he salutes me as I turn around and begin to walk.
I’m aware that Grayson is by my side but neither of us speak. The only sounds come from our surroundings and the alternating elongated sips of coffee were taking to avoid talking. I practically inhale my muffin, after skipping lunch as school had booked my time table that way.
“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” Grayson says suddenly with a sour expression on his face.
“The way he looked at me was none of your business,” I reply sharply, indicating for him to drop the subject unless me wanted a fight.
“Well I didn’t like it,” he continued. Fine, he wants a fight.
“I don’t really care,” I shrug, “he’s Jack, he’s been a friend since freaking kindergarten, he’s got no dishonourable intentions.”
A slight exaggerated lie on my part, but I wasn’t ashamed. It feels like I’ve known Jack that long anyway, the technicalities don’t matter.
“You don’t know that,” he states.
“I know that better than anyone now back off okay?” I snap, “or you and I will have a real problem.”
He laughs, “you’re almost adorable when you’re angry.”
“Adorable?” I say, fantasising spitting in his face after that comment.
“Almost,” he corrects me.
“I can throw a good hard punch and I’m not afraid to,” I warn him.
“Oh I’m sure you’re not,” he says, a ghost of a smile twitching on his lips, “I can see as much in your eyes.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask, raising my voice a little.
He stays quiet and averts his eyes, deciding to ignore me a continue walking.
“Oh ignore the question, real mature,” I roll my eyes, “so glad I’m having a proper adult conversation.”
Silence hits again, like a sonic boom of nothingness. He doesn’t even look at me. It’s as if I don’t exist, as if in the last three seconds I’ve become an irrelevant invisible being.
I stop Grayson in his tracks and force him to meet my eyes, “stay away from Jack,” I practically growl, “or I’ll fail this assignment on purpose.”
“We both know you wouldn’t damage your perfectionist reputation for petty revenge,” he murmurs, our faces only inches away from one another’s.
“I have a talent for getting myself out of things,” I cock my head to the side in an art of competition, my cheeks flushing at the realisation that I could feel his warm breath on my face.
“How funny,” he counters, “me too.”
His eyes are narrowed to challenge me. Okay Hawthorne, game on.
***
We’ve been researching for an hour with no further conversation. Since our previous altercation neither one of us had so much as looked up from our laptops. The only reason I knew he was still sat opposite me was the sound of his keyboard typing. I get out my textbook and begin to highlight the lines I need to use
“Why are you using six different highlighters?”
The first thing he says to me in an hour is that? I don’t bother looking up.
“Why do you care?” I ask, my eyes flicking over to my work, my hands continuing to highlight information.
“It’s annoying me,” he shrugs.
“Okay,” I reply slowly, “it sounds like more of a you problem to me.”
I look up. Grayson is staring right at me, his steel eyes cold looking on my face. He opens his mouth to reply but my surprise gets there first.
“You wear glasses?” I gape.
“Seen as I’ve had them on for the last hour that would make sense,” he teases.
“I never see you wear them at school,” I explain.
“That’s because I don’t,” he pauses, “why were you looking at me in school?”
“It was just generally, like I’d waste my time looking at you,” I roll my eyes.
Then catch his for a moment. My head tilts to the side. Something feels off about him. He looks warmer, softer, calmer.
“What?” he asks, clearly annoyed.
“You look weird,” I blurt out before my brain can filter it.
“How lovely of you to say,” he replies dryly.
“You don’t look like you,” I say, “you look more…”
Human. That’s what I want to say but I trail off instead.
“More what?” he prompts.
“It doesn’t matter,” I shake my head, getting back to my book. I can feel his eyes on me.
He stares me down quizzically, like he’s trying to work me out, “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Highlight my textbook in peace? Yeah,” I scoff, “but that’s not really happening anymore.”
“You’re trying to get under my skin,” he seethes.
“By highlighting my book?” I raise my eyebrows.
“In six different colours,” he reminds me, as if I don’t already know.
I sigh, “I dare say that coffee made you even more of a bitch.”
He rolls his eyes, “you really feel the need to use those words?”
“No but I feel the need to punch you,” I retort.
“Well I’m right here, why don’t you?” he challenges.
“Because I have a level of self control,” I shrug gently.
“Are you quite sure?” he asks me.
He doesn’t realise I’m not the kind of girl to question myself just because a man did first. I’m not that kind of girl at all.
“Are you quite finished?” I reply, just a smoothly to mirror him.
“No.”
Our eyes linger on each others and it feels like we share a million unspoken conversation through the patterns of our irises. I’m fixated on him like I’ve been fixated on no other before. It’s not me but that doesn’t make me pull away. His gaze becomes more concentrated, harder to ignore without unwelcome feelings arising so I look back down to my highlighters and pick up for where I left off, except now I had a thumping heart in my chest.
I slide a sweaty palm on my trousers keeping it hidden under the table. I finish up my highlighting and then begin type up the final few notes I have to get done. After that, it’s over. I get to leave, I get my freedom, I get to breathe.
“I’m finished,” he announces when I’m mid sentence. Why is his tone always so articulated, so definitive?
“Okay I’m nearly there,” I say, frantically typing the last of my notes.
“Bit slow,” he comments.
I roll my eyes with no energy to reply. He’s done me in today. I’m exhausted at the thought of more bickering. With a few more clicks of my keyboard I complete all that I wanted to.
“I’m done,” I exhale, “just send me your work so I can proofread and check the facts.”
“You doubt my skill?” he raises an eyebrow.
I shrug, “I don’t know you well enough to trust it.”
“Then send me yours,” he purses his lips, “and I’ll do the same.”
“Okay then,” I say, sending him over my copy slowly.
He opens it and begins to read as I open his. My eyes are just in the middle of the second paragraph when there’s an untimely interrupted.
“It’s a waste of time,” he says suddenly, irritation thick in his tone.
“Not if I find mistakes,” I sing song, not taking my eyes off of his page, knowing full well I’d have to reread this sentence and other four times.
“You won’t,” he snaps.
“Oh take it out!” I exclaim finally, growing too exasperated to keep my feelings at bay.
He grows suddenly extremely confused, providing a perfect answer, “what?”
“The stick, wedged up your backside!” I whisper-yell, exasperated, “just yank it out already.”
“Excuse me!” he widens his eyes, looking highly disgusted.
“You’re rigid as a board, you never smile, your muscles are literally tensed, chill out a little,” I breathe, “I literally just want to check over the notes, why is it nearly world war three?”
“Your imagination is quite something,” he comments, practically ignoring all that I’d just said.
“So is your expressionless face,” I answer with a small shrug.
Grayson’s lips twist into a smile, “you think my face is quite something?”
“Don’t flatter yourself Hawthorne,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“I’ll try not to,” he replies.
“It must be hard for you,” I tease.
“Not as hard it is for you to admit you like my face,” he continues to smirk, annoying twinging through me with each curve of his mouth.
“If liking it means I want to spit in it, then yeah I really like your face,” I reply.
He leans over the table, getting closer, “you’re revolting.”
“Get the dictionary out for the next adjective,” I taunt him, “there’s one behind you.”
He doesn’t respond and I take that as my win. His eyes just become fixated on my notes all of a sudden. My stomach dances a little. I feel nervous, why do I feel nervous? It’s just Grayson, reading my notes… but my leg is bouncing up and down and I’m holding my breath without realising it. The clock has never ticked so loudly.
I focus on his notes and unfortunately realise he’s right. There are no mistakes. How annoying. I wanted to make him feel stupid for being so arrogant but he had a right to be. His work was practically perfect. Of course there are things I would’ve written differently but it didn’t taken away from the fact that his work was masterful.
“There’s a mistake,” he says suddenly.
Damn it.
“What?” I ask.
“In your work,” he smiles, almost proudly.
“Okay?” I say, “that’s why we proof things, hence proving my earlier point of the important of proofreading.”
“You got the date wrong,” he explains.
“Which one?” I furrow my brows, dates were the first thing I checked usually. It wasn’t like me to make mistakes on them unless I was distracted.
“1922 should be 1923,” he counters, showing me on his screen.
“Must’ve been a typo,” I shrug.
“Or poor research,” he replied smugly.
“Well I’ve written down 1923,” I tap my pen on my paper notes, “so it must have been a typo,”
“Well you should proofread more carefully then?” he says.
“Maybe I should’ve,” I nod.
He’s got nothing left to say. He can’t argue with me if I’ve agreed with him. Silence hit us like the dead. You could cut the tension with a knife.
“Just correct it,” I finally breathe.
“I will,” he says, tapping at the keys.
“Done?” I ask once he’s finished.
“Done,” he consolidates.
“Great so now we can leave,” I say, standing up, a little too eager to get out.
“Not yet,” Grayson tells me, his words slow and staccato.
“What is this? Some sort of damnation? I want to go home,” I exclaim.
“Well we need to seal our work with our fingerprints,” he explains.
I stare at him blankly, it feels like he’s just said something to me in a strange foreign language, “what?”
“Put fingerprint recognition onto the data base so only we can open our work,” he clarifies, as if it makes it any easier for me to understand.
“Why?” I ask cluelessly.
“So no one can hack into it,” he replies.
“Why do you say it likes it’s obvious?” I say.
“Because it is obvious,” he shrugs.
“Only you would have a fingerprint recognition for school assignments,” I roll my eyes.
“Well I want them secure,” he says.
“Clearly,” I snort.
He opens his mouth to reply but I interrupt him before he can get there.
“Let’s just get this over with, I want to go home tonight,” I sigh.
“Fine,” he says, “you just have to tap here.”
I place my finger where he directed it but it didn’t work. Huffing, I jab my finger at the screen a few times harshly. I’m surprised I don’t break the screen.
“I said tap, not murder,” Grayson says.
“I’m imagining it’s your face,” I growl back, still tapping relentlessly at the uncooperative piece of technology.
“It’s cute you think you’d even get close to touching my face,” he replies cooly.
I smack his forehead sharply. His reflexes aren’t fast enough to register it until the act is done. He sits there, stunned and blinking.
“Still cute?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.
“Adorable,” he growls, a sarcastic venom dripping from every letter.
I groan, as the fingerprint fails me again, “it’s not working.”
“You’re doing it wrong,” he tusks.
“Come on then genius,” I roll my eyes, “show me how it’s done.”
I’m surprised when he takes my hand gently and guides it to the screen. That familiar jolt in my stomach returns. He’s so delicate with me, as if I’m worthy of being treated fragile. He applies light pressure to the tip of my thumb so the fingerprint recognition goes through, his eyes fixated on the screen. Mine are on him.
“There, that’s how it’s done,” he says, snapping me out of my thoughts. The screen lit up green.
He let go of my hand and a wave of shame rolls over me because I’m disappointed he let go.
“Good then,” I nod, mentally telling myself to stop thinking such nonsense, “I need to get home.”
“It’s 6pm,” he deadpans.
“And I need to get home,” I repeat, remembering what an aggravating human being he could be. It washed away any tentative hand touch in an instant.
“But the assignment-“
“We have three weeks,” I say, “don’t get your kickers in a twist Barbie 2.0.”
“The names keep getting better,” he grits through his teeth.
“Well practice makes perfect,” I tease, enjoying myself a little too much
“Doesn’t it just,” he smiles sarcastically.
I sigh shaking my head, “why did she have to pair me with you?”
“I don’t know why you’re complaining, you got the better end of the bargain,” he says with a laboured laugh.
I pause and stare at him, “how?”
“You were partnered with me,” he states, “I’m coherent, cohesive, co-“
“Too many co words Mr,” I cut in.
“But I got you,” he says.
“You say it as if I’m a piece of shit on your shoe,” I practically spit at him. I hate the way me makes me feel inferior.
“Well you’re not exactly pleasant to be around,” Grayson defends, leaning back in his chair.
“Ditto.”
“You’re annoying, irritating-“
“They’re literally synonyms of each other,” I yell over him, earning myself a stern look from the librarian.
“I mean you’re clearly very argumentative,” he says, gesturing his hands as if I were proving his point, “but I wouldn’t put it past you, after all I’m presuming your background didn’t give you lessons in etiquette.”
I clench my jaw to keep it from dropping. I knew he was nasty but I didn’t know he could be cruel.
“My background?” I question him. I know what he means, I just want to see if he’s brave enough this stick his neck out and explain it
“You’re a scholarship student,” he shrugs.
“How do you know that,” I ask quickly.
No one is meant to know that. The headmaster assured me no one could possibly find out and yet Grayson Hawthorne knew. How funny. He only shrugs in response, he wasn’t going to let up that information. He could see it meant something to me.
“I know you think you’re king of the world and all that but it wouldn’t kill you to take your head out of your ass every once in a while and breath some fresh air,” I raise my voice a little, wildly furious.
“Must you be so creative with your insults,”he asks dryly
“Must you be so blatantly rude with yours,” I shoot back.
“So it’s not true?” he replies.
“You don’t have the right to judge me on what you think you know about my life,” I snap fiercely.
He raises his eyebrows, “sorry, did I hit a nerve?”
“You hit nothing,” I mutter.
He smiles to himself, he knows he hit something.
“I’ll be leaving now then, see you later,” I say, the annoyance too thick in my tone for me to hide. I stand up and grab my bag.
“Wait!” he calls.
I spin around, “what?”
“I need your number,” he says slowly.
“You don’t need to sound so desperate,” I smirk.
“I need it to text you the times to meet up and work on the assignment,” he clarifies with an infamous eye roll.
“You don’t need to use that as an excuse blondie,“ I say.
“How can someone some on so intelligent be so utterly exasperating,” Grayson groans.
My cheeks heat up. He thinks I’m intelligent. He values my mind.
“It’s a talent,” I grinned back.
He rolls his eyes as I write down my number and hand it to him.
“There.”
“Thank you,” he nods at me.
“Wow,” my eye widen in shock, “you can be civil!”
“Every once in a while,” he shrugs delicately.
I almost smile but suppress it. Quickly I stack all of the books I’d borrowed to out them away on my way out. Though as I go to carry the pile his voice stops me.
“You’re never going to able to carry all of those books,” he says.
“You don’t need to underestimate me Hawthorne, you’ve done that too much today,” I tell him.
“Watch me defy your so called fact then,” I retort, lifting all eight volumes on top of one another into my arms.
“I’m not underestimating you,” Grayson replies, “I’m stating a fact.”
It’s heavier than I’d estimated which is the first shock. They sit unstably, wobbling and threatening to come cluttering to the floor. But he could not be right. I wouldn’t buckle. I wouldn’t drop anything. I’m not a failure.
“Need some help there?” he tilts his head to the side.
“No,” I say, my strained voice giving me away.
“You look like you’re struggling,” he comments.
“Well I’m not,” I reply, feeling that my face is rosy from sheer effort.
He looks at me, “are you sure?”
“Very,” I grunt, my arms burning with the weight.
“I’ll save you the stubborn act and the library damage fee and take some,” he rolls his eyes.
“I said I’m fine-“
He takes a large sum of books from the top. My arms relax slightly as I glare at him.
“If you drop them you’ll like an idiot,” he explains.
“I wouldn’t have dropped them,” I state.
“Okay, whatever you say,” he replies.
“Don’t use my saying on me,” I say.
“It’s not yours,” he shrugs, “you didn’t create it.”
“I used it earlier, that’s close enough,” I tell him.
“Sure.”
We come to an abrupt halt in conversation and both turn back to back to put the books back to their respected areas. I see one in my pile that has a page marked. I flick to it and pause to skim over the contents.
“What are you reading?”
He almost makes me jump, I didn’t hear him sneak up behind me.
“An article,” I say, tying to keep my voice from trembling after the shock.
I can feel him now breathing down my neck, his chest almost touches my back. My pulse races, skyrocketing a little too far.
“Who’s it by?“ he asks.
My eyes flick to the bottom of the page where I read aloud my response, “am anonymous writer.”
He scrunches his nose up, “what good an article with an anonymous author?”
“It’s not about who wrote it, it’s about the impact it has,” I say.
“I disagree, if I wrote a life changing article I’d want people to know I’d written it,” he replies.
“Of course you want more,” I scoff, stacking the books a little too aggressively.
Classic Hawthorne. The second I think he might not be so bad he goes ahead and reminds me of exactly why I hate people like him.
“Want more?” he furrows his brows.
“You want the glory of it, your name talked about, your legacy preserved,” I snap.
“So I can’t want anything?” he shoots back with venom on his tongue.
“You’re a rich, stuck up prick, like all the rest of them at that school,” I laugh bitterly, “your grandfather is a billionaire, what could you possibly want that isn’t already at your fingertips?”
“You don’t have the right to judge me on what you think you know about my life,” he quotes me.
“Bite me Hawthorne,” I snarl, spinning around.
He catches my wrist and the corners of his mouth lift to form a smirk. A twinge of hatred shifts in my stomach as I glare at him.
“Any other requests?” he raises an eyebrow.
“Don’t play that game with me,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.
“And what game might that be?” he asks, our faces inching closer by the second. The butterflies madly gnawing on my internal organs.
“You know what you’re doing,” I mutter, as my fingers clasp around his wrist too.
His smiles broadens and his silver eyes ignite, “and what is it that I am doing?”
“Stop,” I snap at him. We’re so close now that our foreheads could touch with the slightest of movements.
“Stop what?” he questions me, his voice so hushed it send a shiver down my spine.
“I’m going to strangle you,” I growl, the sound coming from the back of my throat. An uninvited passion rippling through my tone.
“I’d like to see you try,” he murmurs, snaking a hand around my waist. A soft gasp escapes my lips at the warmth and tenderness of his touch. He holds me like I’m breakable. It makes me vulnerable and I hate it yet I don’t tell him to stop. I come to horrible realisation that maybe I don’t want him to.
“I swear to god Hawthorne-“
“Shhhhh,” he says, eyes pinned to mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask breathlessly. All the oxygen previously in my lungs had been sucked out mercilessly by his tentative being.
“Just shut up for one second,” he snaps.
Fury lights inside of me and the spark of rage burns brighter than ever, “don’t tell me to shut-“
“Shhhhh,” he murmurs, placing a gentle finger to my lips.
My mouth obeys without my brain’s consent and my voice ceases. It’s just him and I and the silence around us. My heart thumps in my chest, so loudly it rattles through my ears. Slowly, almost cautiously, my own hands slide up his back as if some other world force is tugging them that way. I know I don’t want to do this but a familiar aching for deprived feeling was forcing me to.
“What are we doing Grayson?” I say, the words barely heard.
“I don’t know,” he whispers, “all I know is, you drive me insane.”
“Funny,” I smile softly, “you drive me insane too.”
His pupils dilate as we get closer. An entrancing monochrome kaleidoscope, only black and grey. Our foreheads meet, pressing into one another. It feels so natural, so right. His hands tighten slightly around the small of my back, as my eyelash graze his cheek, tickling him lightly. I can feel his breath on my face and his heart beating against my own. Our lips go to meet and-
“We’re closing the library now.”
I jerk backwards to suddenly my back smacks into the shelves of books behind me. Pain surges through my spinal cord and I bite my lip to keep me from crying out. My eyes become glossy as previously stacked books thump to the floor. I look up to see the librarian standing there.
I cough, picking up the books, “thanks, we were just leaving.”
She raises a brow but doesn’t say another word. I feel my cheeks burn a feverish red. I don’t meet Grayson’s eyes as I spin on my heels and charge out.
thanks for reading my loves 🤍🤍
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