Aria didn't wait for an invitation.
She found Lucas in the east wing study hall—glass walls, low lighting, the kind of place where ambition went to pretend it was calm. He was seated at a corner table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, legal pads spread out like territory.
She stopped directly across from him.
"We need to talk."
Lucas looked up slowly. "That's never a good opening."
"Neither is stepping into my argument without permission."
His expression sharpened. "You froze."
"I paused."
"You disappeared."
Her jaw tightened. "You don't get to define my performance."
He leaned back in his chair. "And you don't get to pretend what happened didn't matter."
The silence snapped.
Students nearby glanced over, then quickly pretended not to listen.
Aria lowered her voice—but not the intensity. "You made me look dependent."
Lucas stood. Not aggressively. Deliberately.
"I made you look supported."
"That's worse."
He studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in calculation. "Is this about pride," he asked, "or about control?"
Aria didn't answer immediately.
Because the truth was uncomfortable.
"It's about ownership," she said finally. "Of my work. Of my reputation. Of myself."
Lucas nodded slowly. "Then stop pretending I'm the enemy."
"You interfered."
"I protected."
"You exposed a crack."
"There already was one."
Her hands clenched. "You think I don't know that?"
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Lucas's expression shifted—not triumph, not concern.
Recognition.
"Then why are you angry at me," he asked quietly, "and not at what caused it?"
Aria looked away.
Just for a second.
That was enough.
"You're inside my space," she said. "Inside my head. And I didn't authorize that."
Lucas's voice dropped. "Neither did I."
She snapped back. "Then why do you keep doing it?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he moved closer—still respectful, but close enough that she could feel the heat of his presence.
"Because when you falter," he said, "you don't ask for help. You shut down."
"That's discipline."
"That's isolation."
Aria laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Isolation built me."
"And it's breaking you," Lucas replied.
That stopped her.
Not because it hurt.
Because it was said without judgment.
They stood there, tension coiled tight, something dangerous humming beneath restraint.
"This can't continue," Aria said finally.
Lucas tilted his head. "Agreed."
She crossed her arms. "Then we set rules."
He almost smiled. "You were going to say that."
"You suggested them first?" she asked sharply.
"No," he said. "You did. The moment you walked in ready to negotiate instead of explode."
She didn't deny it.
"Rules," she repeated. "Clear ones."
Lucas nodded once. "Go on."
"No emotional interference," she said. "No personal commentary. No stepping in unless explicitly requested."
"No late-night analysis that isn't trial-related," he added.
She hesitated. "Fine."
"No assumptions about motive," he continued. "No protecting without consent."
"That's redundant."
"Apparently not."
She exhaled slowly. "We keep this professional."
Lucas's eyes held hers. "We keep this contained."
A beat passed.
Then another.
Aria extended her hand. "Agreed."
Lucas looked at it.
Then at her.
Then took it.
The contact was brief.
Intentional.
Controlled.
And far too aware.
They released simultaneously.
"This will work," Aria said.
Lucas's lips curved—not a smile.
A challenge.
"We'll see."
The rules lasted exactly three days.
Not because either of them broke them outright.
But because following them required awareness—and awareness sharpened everything else.
They sat farther apart now during prep. Conversations were clipped. Efficient. Clean.
Too clean.
Aria noticed things she hadn't before.
The way Lucas stopped himself mid-sentence.
The way his gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary.
The way silence filled with unsaid questions instead of hostility.
Lucas noticed too.
How Aria overcorrected.
How she avoided looking at him when arguments landed cleanly.
How she wrote faster when emotions threatened to surface.
Rules didn't erase tension.
They concentrated it.
On the fourth night, they were alone again—practice room, whiteboard half-erased, legal texts stacked carelessly between them.
Aria rubbed her temples. "Your cross-examination sequence needs compression."
Lucas leaned forward. "Your rebuttal assumes emotional neutrality."
"It's logic-based."
"No," he said calmly. "It's defensive."
Her head snapped up. "That violates rule three."
He didn't retreat. "You said no personal commentary. This is professional."
She stood. "You're toeing the line."
He stood too. "You built the line too close."
Their voices weren't raised.
That made it worse.
"Why does this bother you so much?" Lucas asked.
"Because it shouldn't," Aria replied.
"Because you're losing control?"
"Because I refuse to," she snapped.
Silence stretched.
Lucas watched her carefully now. "You're trying to win without risking anything."
"That's called strategy."
"No," he said. "That's called fear."
Her breath caught.
"That," she said quietly, "is another violation."
Lucas smiled then.
Not amused.
Provoked.
"You want honesty or rules?" he asked.
She hesitated.
He saw it.
And there it was—the crack everyone else only suspected.
"You won't last a week," Lucas said lightly, stepping back.
She stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"These rules," he continued, tone infuriatingly calm. "They're armor. You wear them when you don't want to feel."
Her eyes flashed. "And you think you're immune?"
"No," he admitted. "I just know I'll break first."
That unsettled her more than any accusation.
"You think this is a game," she said.
"I think it's inevitable."
She folded her arms. "You're wrong."
Lucas grabbed his jacket, heading for the door.
"Prove it," he said over his shoulder.
The door shut behind him.
Aria stood alone in the room, heart racing—not from anger, but from something far more dangerous.
Anticipation.
The door's soft click echoed longer than it should have.
Aria didn't move.
She stood exactly where Lucas had left her—arms folded, shoulders squared, spine straight—like posture alone could reassert control over the room.
It didn't.
The silence pressed in, heavier now that it was empty of him.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, then turned back to the whiteboard. The marker was still in her hand. She hadn't noticed when she'd picked it up again.
She stared at the arguments written there.
Clean.
Structured.
Flawless.
And suddenly unbearable.
Her hand lifted—and she erased a section too forcefully, the squeak of the marker sharp against the board.
You won't last a week.
The words replayed with irritating clarity.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Certain.
That was what unsettled her most.
Aria sat down hard in the chair, elbows braced on the table, fingers pressed to her temples.
This wasn't loss of control.
It was… proximity distortion.
That was all.
Extended exposure. Cognitive interference. A predictable reaction under sustained pressure.
She named it clinically because naming things made them smaller.
She opened her laptop, scrolling to the rebuttal framework Lucas had criticized.
Defensive.
She bristled again.
It wasn't defensive. It was airtight.
She read it twice.
Then a third time.
The logic was solid—but narrow. It anticipated attack instead of asserting dominance.
Her jaw tightened.
She hated that he was right.
Aria snapped the laptop shut.
This was exactly why the rules existed.
Because left unchecked, insight turned into influence.
And influence—especially the quiet kind—was dangerous.
Lucas didn't go far.
He stopped at the end of the hallway, one hand braced against the cool concrete wall, eyes closed.
He counted his breaths.
In for four.
Hold for two.
Out for six.
Stupid.
He hadn't planned to say that.
You won't last a week.
It had slipped out—not as a taunt, but as a truth he'd recognized too late.
He exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
This was the problem with rules.
They forced attention.
And attention made patterns visible.
Aria wasn't fragile. She wasn't unraveling.
She was bracing.
Harder than necessary.
Every rule she'd proposed was a defense mechanism disguised as professionalism.
And the worst part?
He understood it.
Which meant he was already inside the thing she was trying to protect.
Lucas straightened, jaw set.
He would keep his distance.
He had to.
Because if he didn't—
The next rule broken wouldn't be small.
The following days proved how thin the rules really were.
They followed them.
Technically.
No late-night messages unless strictly necessary.
No personal observations framed as concern.
No stepping in unless asked.
But proximity didn't obey policy.
They were still assigned together. Still seated at the same tables. Still speaking in the same low, precise tones that carried more meaning than volume ever could.
In class, Aria spoke less—but sharper.
Every contribution was exact. Efficient. Impossible to fault.
Lucas watched her from two seats away, noticing what others didn't.
She didn't hesitate again.
But she rushed conclusions she would've previously explored.
She avoided improvisation.
Control, yes.
Flexibility, no.
Professor Kingsley noticed too.
Noted it.
Filed it away.
Serena noticed everything.
During a mock session, Serena leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled, eyes flicking briefly between Aria and Lucas.
Interesting, she seemed to think.
Very interesting.
After class, Mila cornered Aria near the lockers.
"You're doing that thing," Mila said.
Aria didn't slow. "What thing?"
"The hyper-focus thing. The one you do when you're pretending nothing's wrong."
Aria stopped, exhaled. "Nothing is wrong."
Mila crossed her arms. "Then why are you avoiding him like eye contact is a liability?"
"I'm not avoiding him."
"You walked the long way around the hall."
"That's efficiency."
Mila stared at her.
Aria sighed. "Fine. I'm managing variables."
Mila's expression softened. "You don't manage people, Aria. You interact with them."
"I don't have time for interaction."
"Then why does this bother you so much?"
Aria didn't answer.
Because the truth was uncomfortable.
Because Lucas hadn't tried to dominate her space.
He'd simply occupied it.
And she didn't know how to defend against that without becoming someone she didn't recognize.
That night, the practice room was occupied—but not by them together.
Aria arrived first, setting up methodically.
She told herself it was coincidence when Lucas walked in ten minutes later.
They acknowledged each other with nods.
Nothing more.
They worked.
Side by side, but not together.
Parallel lines.
Until Professor Kingsley entered unexpectedly.
"Run the cross," he said without preamble.
Aria and Lucas looked up at the same time.
Together.
Kingsley's gaze flicked between them.
"Together," he repeated. "As assigned."
They moved into position.
Aria took the lead.
Lucas followed.
And for ten minutes, the rules blurred—not because they broke them, but because the work demanded synergy.
They moved fluidly.
Anticipated each other.
Adjusted in real time.
It was seamless.
Dangerously so.
Kingsley watched without comment.
When it ended, he nodded once. "Effective."
Then, pointedly: "Don't let discipline become rigidity."
And left.
The door closed.
The silence returned.
Different now.
Charged.
Aria broke it first. "That doesn't count as breaking a rule."
Lucas's mouth twitched. "Which one?"
"Any of them."
"I didn't say it did."
She hesitated. "You didn't hesitate."
He met her eyes. "Neither did you."
Their gazes held.
Something pressed against the surface.
Not desire.
Recognition.
Aria stepped back first. "We should stop."
Lucas nodded. "We should."
Neither moved.
Seconds passed.
Finally, Lucas picked up his jacket.
"Still think I'm wrong?" he asked quietly.
She swallowed. "About what?"
"About inevitability."
She looked away.
That was answer enough.
Later, alone again, Aria lay awake staring at the ceiling.
The rules were intact.
On paper.
In practice, they were thinning—fraying at the edges under sustained pressure.
Lucas hadn't touched her.
Hadn't crossed a line.
Hadn't asked for anything.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because the tension wasn't coming from pursuit.
It was coming from restraint.
She closed her eyes.
You won't last a week.
She hated that part of her believed him.
Not because she wanted to break the rules—
But because she was starting to understand why they existed in the first place.
And why they were never meant to hold.
Lucas smirks.
"You won't last a week."