Aria told herself she didn't care.
She repeated it the way she repeated case law in her head—methodically, convincingly, until it almost sounded true. Facts didn't bend under pressure. Precedents didn't flinch. If she said something often enough, aligned it with logic, framed it correctly, it became unshakable.
Lucas having a girlfriend was irrelevant.
Logical.
Expected.
Men like him didn't exist without orbit. They attracted gravity—attention, admiration, attachment—without effort. They were the kind of men people assumed were already claimed, even when they weren't.
Still, the word girlfriend felt heavier than it should have.
Like a variable added too late into a formula she'd already solved.
She tried to work.
Her notebook lay open, pen poised, but the words blurred. The margin filled with neat bullet points she didn't remember writing. She read them again. Twice. Nothing stuck.
Across the study hall, Lucas laughed quietly at something Noah said.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
That was the problem.
The sound was easy. Familiar. Unfiltered.
It didn't belong to her.
Aria shifted in her chair, forcing her attention back to the page. Focus was a discipline. She'd trained it like muscle memory. Distraction was weakness. Emotion was inefficiency.
And yet—there it was.
Evelyn Cross sat beside Lucas with effortless confidence, legs crossed, posture relaxed, like she had already memorized the room and found nothing threatening in it. She listened when others spoke. Smiled at the right moments. Never too much.
Perfectly calibrated.
Aria hated that more than anything.
Not because Evelyn was beautiful—beauty was common, subjective, dismissible.
But because Evelyn was comfortable.
As if she belonged exactly where she was.
As if she had always belonged beside Lucas.
Evelyn leaned in slightly, murmuring something low. Lucas tilted his head to hear her better. His shoulder brushed hers.
Aria looked away.
Immediately.
Too quickly.
Her pulse kicked once, sharp and unwelcome.
This doesn't matter, she told herself.
She and Lucas had a truce. A professional alignment. Respect. Nothing more. She didn't want more. Wanting complicated things led to missteps. Vulnerability. Loss of control.
Still, her mind betrayed her.
How long?
The question arrived uninvited.
How long had they been together? How far back did their history stretch? What did Evelyn know about him that Aria didn't—and would never be allowed to?
The worst part wasn't the curiosity.
It was the realization that Evelyn already knew something about her.
She felt it the moment Evelyn's gaze found her across the room. The way it lingered—not assessing, not judging, but recognizing.
As if Aria were a known quantity.
That unsettled her more than jealousy ever could.
Evelyn smiled.
Aria returned it, controlled and precise, the way she smiled at rivals across debate floors. The smile that said I see you, without revealing anything else.
But her fingers tightened around her pen.
Lucas looked up then.
Their eyes met.
Just briefly.
Something shifted in his expression—hesitation, maybe. Awareness.
Then Evelyn spoke again, and his attention returned to her.
The connection snapped.
Clean.
Final.
Aria exhaled slowly through her nose, grounding herself the way she always did before stepping into hostile rooms. Observe. Adapt. Survive.
This was not a battlefield.
This was not a loss.
This was simply new information.
And information, she could handle.
She gathered her notes, aligning the edges carefully, restoring order where she could. Control wasn't about emotionlessness—it was about containment.
Still, as she stood to leave, the word echoed again in her mind.
Girlfriend.
Not rival.
Not opponent.
Not obstacle.
Something more permanent.
Something that didn't need to win—because it was already chosen.
Aria walked out of the study hall with her posture straight, expression composed, steps measured.
No one would notice the fracture.
No one would know that for the first time in a long time, logic alone wasn't enough.
And that terrified her.
The study lounge buzzed with low conversation, laptops open, coffee cups scattered like evidence of collective exhaustion. Aria took her usual seat near the window—far enough from the center to observe without being pulled in.
Mila dropped into the chair beside her, leaning close. "Okay," she whispered, "tell me I'm not the only one who feels like the temperature dropped ten degrees."
Aria didn't look up from her notes. "You're imagining it."
Mila snorted softly. "Sure. And Evelyn Cross just happened to know everyone's GPA by lunchtime."
That made Aria's pen pause.
Across the room, Evelyn sat beside Lucas with effortless ownership. She didn't cling. Didn't lean too close.
She didn't need to.
Her presence alone was a claim.
Perfect posture. Neutral tones. Confidence worn like it had been tailored specifically for her.
Untouchable.
Evelyn laughed at something Noah said, light and unforced, then glanced around the room—her gaze sweeping, cataloguing—
Until it landed on Aria.
And stayed.
Just a second too long.
Evelyn smiled.
Not warm.
Not cold.
Certain.
Aria felt the first crack then. Small. Internal. Easy to dismiss if she didn't look at it too closely.
She looked away first.
Lucas was quieter than usual.
Noah noticed. Mila noticed.
Aria noticed and hated herself for it.
He contributed when necessary. Spoke concisely. But the ease—the sharp, cutting rhythm he shared with Aria during prep—was gone.
Like he was editing himself.
Evelyn leaned toward him at one point, murmuring something Aria couldn't hear.
Lucas nodded.
Didn't look at Aria.
The absence felt louder than words.
Mila shifted in her seat. "She's… intense."
"She's efficient," Aria replied, immediately regretting the defense.
Mila blinked. "You just described Lucas's ideal partner."
Aria closed her notebook. "We're not discussing this."
"Did I say his name?" Mila asked gently.
Silence.
Across the room, Evelyn rose smoothly. "Lucas," she said, voice calm and clear. "Walk with me?"
Lucas stood without hesitation.
That was the part that hurt.
Not the choice.
The lack of conflict in it.
As they passed Aria's table, Evelyn slowed—just enough.
"Aria, right?" she asked pleasantly.
Aria looked up.
"Yes."
"I've heard so much about you."
Lucas stiffened.
Aria caught it.
"From whom?" Aria asked evenly.
Evelyn smiled wider. "Around."
Around.
The word lingered, deliberately vague.
"Well," Aria said, returning the smile with precision, "then I hope the information was accurate."
"Oh," Evelyn replied lightly, "it was fascinating."
She turned back to Lucas, resting a hand briefly against his arm.
Possessive.
Subtle.
Final.
They walked away.
Aria didn't watch them go.
She didn't need to.
The damage had already been done.
Later, during prep review, Professor Kingsley paired them deliberately.
Aria. Lucas. Evelyn. Noah.
A test.
A trap.
"Debate strategy," Kingsley instructed. "Lucas, lead."
Lucas nodded.
Aria kept her gaze on the table.
Evelyn leaned back in her chair, studying Aria openly now. No pretense. No disguise.
"So," Evelyn said casually, "you're the one he mentioned."
Aria looked up slowly. "Mentioned?"
Lucas cut in. "Evelyn—"
"It's fine," Evelyn said smoothly. "I was curious."
Curiosity sharpened by comparison.
"What about me?" Aria asked.
"That you're very controlled," Evelyn replied. "That you don't waste words. That you make people work to understand you."
Lucas's jaw tightened.
"And?" Aria pressed.
Evelyn tilted her head. "That people mistake that for distance."
Aria smiled thinly. "And what do you mistake it for?"
Evelyn leaned closer. "Competition."
The room stilled.
Noah coughed awkwardly. "So—debate frameworks?"
Lucas didn't speak.
Aria felt the second crack then—deeper this time.
Because Evelyn knew.
Not guessed.
Knew.
During the break, Lucas followed Aria into the hallway.
"Aria," he said.
She stopped but didn't turn.
"That was unnecessary," he continued.
She faced him then. "Which part? Her curiosity or your silence?"
His expression tightened. "She wasn't trying to provoke you."
"She didn't need to," Aria replied quietly. "Your absence did that for her."
Lucas frowned. "That's not fair."
"Neither is pretending this doesn't change things," she said.
He hesitated. "I didn't think it would matter."
There it was.
Not dismissal.
Ignorance.
She nodded once. "Then that's on me."
She walked away before he could respond.
Because if she stayed, she might say something honest.
And honesty, right now, felt like defeat.
Evelyn found her that evening.
The library was nearly empty, the lights dimmed for closing. Aria sat alone, notes spread out but untouched.
"You work late," Evelyn said softly.
Aria didn't look up. "So do you."
Evelyn took the chair opposite her without asking.
"I like you," she said easily. "You're disciplined. Focused. Dangerous."
Aria finally met her gaze. "This is where you reassure me, or warn me?"
Evelyn smiled. "Neither."
She leaned in, voice lowering.
"Rivals never last here," she said.
"Girlfriends do."
The words weren't cruel.
They didn't need to be.
Aria felt something inside her fracture completely—not loudly, not visibly.
Just enough.
Enough to know she cared.
Enough to hate herself for it.
Evelyn stood. "See you tomorrow, Aria."
She walked away.
Aria remained seated, fingers curled against the edge of the table, breathing steady despite the quiet storm tearing through her chest.
She told herself she didn't care.
But jealousy had already rewritten the equation.
And control—her greatest weapon—was slipping.
Evelyn leans closer.
"Rivals never last here."
"Girlfriends do."