Mia Pov
Mia hated mornings. Not the gentle, soft ones where sunlight spilled like honey across the room and everything felt like it could be managed. No, she hated the kind of mornings where light cut sharply across her desk, slicing through her foggy thoughts and leaving her blinking in discomfort, reminding her of the cruel passage of time she had absolutely no control over. Even her coffee, bitter and steaming, seemed somehow guilty for existing—like it knew she hadn't slept enough and still expected her to perform.
And of course, Ace had already arrived.
She had glimpsed him in the hallway earlier, leaning lazily against the lockers with that infuriating smirk she wanted to scrape off his face. The kind of smirk that suggested the universe had granted him some unwritten privilege: a charm she would never admit to noticing, a confidence that was entirely his own.
Mia had nearly tripped over her own feet passing him, a fact she still wanted to bury deep in some mental vault labeled "never speak of this ever." She had convinced herself it was the hallway floor's fault, though a small, treacherous part of her—one she didn't like admitting existed—wondered if it was more than clumsiness.
She hated that she noticed things about him. The way his hair fell slightly over his eyes, the easy curve of his smile when he thought nobody was watching, the quiet way he seemed to occupy a room without even trying. She absolutely hated it.
With a determined scowl, Mia shoved her notebook across her desk, trying to refocus on the pile of calculus homework she had yet to conquer. Numbers and formulas made sense in a way Ace never would—calm, predictable, solvable. She liked solving things. And yet, solving problems felt insignificant when Ace could invade her thoughts without even trying.
Her concentration was interrupted by the soft chuckle she recognized instantly.
"Struggling with the homework again?" Ace's voice was teasing, light, dangerous in the way it seemed to reach inside her skull and rattle things around.
Mia snapped her notebook shut as if the sound could protect her from him. "Not at all. I was just… thinking," she said, her voice tight, careful. She avoided his eyes, because she knew that once she looked, she'd see that glimmer—like he knew exactly what she was thinking and might even enjoy it.
He tilted his head, giving her that careful, observant stare that always made her feel like he could read her thoughts. "Thinking about how to finally beat me at this?"
Her instinct was to roll her eyes. Instead, she froze for a second, realizing that… maybe he had a point. Beating Ace wasn't just a matter of pride anymore. It had become a quiet, stubborn obsession she didn't like admitting, even to herself.
"Maybe," she said cautiously, trying to sound indifferent.
He grinned. That grin. And Mia's pulse betrayed her with a flutter she immediately wanted to deny.
The day dragged on. Classes blurred together, a monotone rhythm of lectures and scribbled notes, punctuated by the occasional awareness of Ace's presence. Each time their eyes met, Mia felt that spark of irritation she didn't trust. Her thoughts were a mixture of "he's impossible" and "why is he impossible to ignore?"
And then fate, in the cruelest possible way, threw them together.
Library. Shared project. Perfect storm.
Ace plopped down beside her, sliding his notebook across the table as if the world had no rules other than his. "You've got this one," he said casually, though she could see the hint of challenge in his eyes. "I'm here if you need a genius's input."
Mia narrowed her eyes, resisting the urge to roll them. "Genius or nuisance?"
"Depends on who you ask," he said, tilting his head back and smiling as though he had just solved some grand mystery.
She bristled, but secretly braced herself. Working with Ace was navigating a minefield. Every gesture, every glance, felt charged with something she wasn't ready to name. But there was no denying it—the chemistry in the air was heavy, unspoken, and impossible to ignore.
They settled into the project, books and papers strewn around them. Ace leaned over a map first, then a textbook, then a notebook, all while maintaining that irritatingly casual ease that made her pulse a little faster than it had any right to. Every accidental brush of his shoulder, every time their hands reached for the same pencil, was like a spark threatening to ignite.
Mia tried to focus on the work, reminding herself that he was, after all, just a distraction. A ridiculously charming distraction who happened to be brilliant, infuriating, and entirely inappropriate in every way.
Ace, naturally, seemed to notice her distraction. "You're awfully quiet today," he said, voice smooth and teasing. "Everything okay?"
"Everything is fine," she said, though her tone wavered despite her effort. She didn't meet his eyes. She couldn't. Not yet.
He smirked knowingly, like he could read her discomfort as clearly as a page. "Sure. Fine. You know, you don't have to pretend with me."
Mia's fingers tightened around her pen. Pretend? She wasn't pretending. She was fiercely, determinedly trying not to notice him in a way that made her dizzy.
Hours passed with tense focus, broken by the occasional banter and teasing that Ace seemed incapable of suppressing. She caught herself laughing once, though she quickly covered it with a cough, annoyed at herself for betraying any sense of enjoyment.
At one point, they both reached for the same notebook, fingers brushing lightly. Mia felt a jolt of awareness so strong it made her heart skip. She jerked her hand back, though not fast enough to avoid the lingering warmth of contact. Ace's gaze flicked down to where their fingers had met, then back to her face, and Mia swore she saw that smirk twist into something like triumph.
"You're aware I'm trying to distract you, right?" he asked softly.
"I'm… not," she muttered, because lying felt safer than admitting the truth.
He chuckled, low and amused. "Right."
The rest of the library session passed in a blur of notes, diagrams, and the occasional spark of unintended proximity. Mia noticed the way he leaned closer to see her work, the subtle brush of his sleeve against hers, and the way his attention never seemed to waver from her presence. She hated it. She hated it because she couldn't stop noticing.
By the time they packed up, the library quiet and nearly empty, Mia's chest felt tight—not from exertion, but from the lingering awareness of Ace so close for so long.
He slung his bag over one shoulder and gave her that smile again—the one that said he knew something about her that she wasn't willing to admit. "We make a pretty good team," he said lightly, though there was a quiet intensity behind his words.
Mia forced a scoff. "Don't let it go to your head."
He winked, and for the briefest moment, she thought she might throw her notebook at him, though of course she didn't. He was already gone, leaving her staring at the empty space where he had been, wondering why he lingered in her thoughts even after he left.
The walk home was torturous, filled with replayed moments of the library session in her mind: his leaning shoulder, the way his hand had brushed hers, the teasing in his voice. She couldn't admit that she noticed all of it, that it made her stomach twist in ways she didn't want to analyze.
Back in her room, Mia tried to focus on homework, but her mind rebelled. Numbers and equations blurred together. Her thoughts kept returning to Ace—his smile, the way he had watched her, the undeniable pull she felt toward him, no matter how hard she tried to deny it.
And the worst part? She hated herself for noticing. She hated that she couldn't just see him as an irritating classmate. Hated that she was aware of the slow, subtle way he wormed his way into her thoughts. Hated the thrill of being challenged by him, and hated that she might even… enjoy it, in a way she refused to define.
Mia shook her head, trying to scatter the images, the feelings, the awareness that Ace had an inexplicable hold on her attention. She had no choice but to remind herself: he was a distraction, a complication, a challenge—but nothing more. That line was clear. That line would not blur.
Yet, as she drifted to sleep later, notebook still open, pen resting idle, she realized that even defining him as a mere distraction felt… impossible. And maybe, just maybe, that realization frightened her more than anything else.
Enemies. That's what they were. Absolutely, undeniably, irrefutably.
And yet somewhere in the chaos of calculus, library tables, and quiet, unspoken sparks, Mia suspected that the line between irritation and… something else, was starting to blur. Slowly. Dangerously.