The study room smells like old carpet and desperation—the particular desperation of students who've crammed into this space for decades, leaving behind their anxiety like a ghost. Room 214B is barely larger than a closet, with a single desk shoved against one wall and two chairs that have seen better decades.

It's perfect for torture.

"You're late," James says, not looking up from his laptop. He's already set up, papers spread across the desk in organized chaos. Of course he's organized. Of course he's been here early.

"I'm exactly on time." I drop my bag and pull out my own materials. "Punctuality is the minimum expectation, not a personality trait."

"Everything's a competition with you, isn't it?"

I don't answer. We both know it's true.

The room shrinks the moment I sit down. There's barely eighteen inches between our chairs—a design flaw of catastrophic proportions. His sandalwood-and-smoke scent wraps around me immediately, warm and suffocating, and I have to resist the urge to scoot my chair backward. That would be an admission. That would be weakness.

"We're researching the economic implications of pharmaceutical patent law," James says, his tone shifting into something professional. "I pulled some preliminary sources. Thought we could divide and conquer, then synthesize."

I lean over to see the screen, and our shoulders brush.

Lightning.

I pull back, pretending to examine the papers instead. My heart is doing something pathetic and irregular in my chest. This is fine. This is completely fine. We're two intelligent people doing research. The fact that he's wearing a henley that's fitted just right, the fact that I can see the faint line of his collarbone, the fact that his hands are large and capable and currently typing with infuriating competence—none of that matters.

"These sources are good," I say, my voice steadier than my pulse. "But we need something more recent. The landscape shifted after the 2019 ruling."

"Already ahead of you." He reaches across to grab a folder, and this time his arm brushes mine deliberately. I think. Maybe. "Found three law journal articles published last year."

He's close enough that I can count the gold flecks in his brown eyes if I wanted to. I don't want to. That's a lie. I absolutely want to, which is why I'm gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to make my knuckles white.

"Pass them over," I say.

For the next hour, we work in a rhythm that's almost choreographed. He reads aloud while I take notes. I challenge his interpretations; he refines them. It's the best debate practice I've had all semester, and it's happening in a room that smells like his cologne and my own racing pulse.

By the time we reach the role-play portion, I'm wound so tight I might snap.

"Let's run the opening statements," James suggests. "You take the affirmative. I'll argue the negative."

"Fine." I stand up, needing the space, needing to move. "Resolved: pharmaceutical companies should be restricted from extending patent protections through minor modifications."

I pace the tiny room—three steps forward, three steps back—as I launch into my opening. My argument is sharp, well-constructed, devastating. I'm good at this. I'm always good at this.

James listens, and when I finish, he stands too. "You're assuming the market can't self-regulate. That's your fundamental flaw."

"It's not a flaw, it's a reality. The market has never self-regulated—"

"Because you're not accounting for—"

"I'm accounting for everything. You're just too comfortable with the status quo—"

"And you're too busy being right to consider nuance—"

My hand comes up to gesture, to emphasize my point about the inadequacy of his argument, and his hand shoots out and catches my wrist.

The room stops.

Everything stops.

His grip is gentle but firm, his thumb resting against the inside of my wrist where my pulse is doing something absolutely insane. I can feel it hammering against his skin, and I know he can feel it too. His brown eyes are dark now, darker than I've ever seen them, and his breathing has shifted into something heavier.

We're close. Close enough that I can see the stubble along his jaw, the slight imperfection of a scar above his left eyebrow, the way his eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

Close enough that if either of us moved an inch, we'd be kissing.

"Margot," he says, and my name sounds like a question and a prayer and a warning all at once.

My body is screaming at me to close that inch. Every nerve ending is on fire, every rational thought has been incinerated, and all I want is to taste him, to feel him, to stop being terrified for approximately five seconds and just have this.

Instead, I yank my hand away.

"That's not an argument," I say coldly. "That's just aggression."

The shift is immediate. His expression hardens, the warmth draining away like I've pulled a plug. He releases my wrist slowly, as if he's trying not to startle me.

"Right," he says quietly. "Of course."

I grab my bag with shaking hands. I can't do this. Can't sit in this suffocating room anymore, can't pretend that the air between us isn't charged with something dangerous and consuming, can't keep lying to myself about what I want.

"We should schedule another session," I say, not looking at him. "We've covered the foundational research."

"Margot—"

"Same time next week?"

"Don't do this."

I'm at the door. One hand on the frame, one foot already in the hallway. "Do what?"

"Run."

The word hits harder than it should. I don't turn around because if I do, he'll see it all—the desire, the fear, the way I'm barely holding myself together.

"I'm not running," I lie. "I'm being practical."

"You're being a coward."

That makes me turn. He's standing there in his fitted henley with his tousled hair and his warm eyes that are currently burning with frustration, and he's right. He's absolutely right, and I hate him for it.

"You don't know anything about me," I say.

"I know you're terrified." He steps closer, and I force myself not to step back. "I know you want this as much as I do. And I know you're going to run away from it anyway because that's what you do—you run from anything that might make you human."

"I don't—"

"You do. You wrap yourself in ice and competition and sarcasm, and it's impressive, really, the architecture of it all. But it's lonely, Margot. And you're tired of being lonely."

My hands are shaking. My chest is tight. Everything in me wants to fight, to cut him down with a perfectly calibrated insult, to prove that I'm untouchable and invulnerable and completely fine on my own.

But he's right, and that's worse.

"You don't get to analyze me," I say instead.

"Someone has to. You're too busy analyzing everyone else."

I leave before he can say anything else, before I can do something stupid like cry or confess or beg him to touch me again. The hallway is blessedly cool, blessedly empty, and I let myself lean against the wall for exactly ten seconds before pulling myself together.

My hands are still shaking. My pulse is still erratic. And beneath my ribs, something that feels dangerously like hope is trying to take root.

I crush it down.

But as I'm walking toward my locker, I catch sight of Victoria near the water fountain. She's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—something between curiosity and calculation. She's seen something. The flushed cheeks, the messy ponytail, the way I'm moving like I've been through a physical altercation.

She's seen my weakness.

And from the slow, predatory smile spreading across her face, I know she's already planning how to use it.

---

By the time I get to my car, I've received three texts from James.

"I'm sorry. That was out of line."

"I shouldn't have called you a coward. You're the least cowardly person I know."

"Can we just talk? Please?"

I don't respond to any of them. Instead, I sit in the driver's seat with my hands on the wheel and my forehead pressed against the cold leather, trying to regulate my breathing.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's not James.

It's a text from an unknown number: "Saw you leaving the study room. Everything okay? James seemed upset. -V"

Victoria.

Of course.

I delete the message without responding, but the damage is already done. She's noticed. She's watching. And she's already started spinning whatever narrative will hurt me most.

The worst part is, I don't even care about the strategic implications right now. All I can think about is the way James's hand felt on my wrist, the way his voice sounded when he said my name, the way he called me a coward and was absolutely right.

I start the car and drive home with his scent still clinging to my jacket, still intoxicating my senses, still making me want things I'm too terrified to have.

By tomorrow, Victoria will have told someone something. By next week, there will be rumors. By the time we compete again, the narrative will be set: James is a player, I'm vulnerable, and we're both disasters waiting to happen.

But tonight, I just let myself feel the wreckage.

And tomorrow, I'll rebuild the walls higher than before.

Because that's what I do.

That's what I've always done.

Even when it's slowly destroying me.