---
LenaCarter never believed in clichés, but the first day of senior year felt like one. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and overly sweet perfume. The hallway buzzed with nervous laughter, new backpacks, and whispered rumors. Lockers slammed like applause. Teachers barked half-hearted greetings. And Lena—head down, earbuds in—walked through it all like a ghost.
She had a plan this year. Get in, get out, get the hell away from everyone.
College applications. SATs. Scholarships. That was her holy trinity.
Nothing else mattered.
Nothing... except Jace freaking Rivera.
Her footsteps slowed as she reached her locker, 212B—two rows down from the main stairwell and just across from the varsity trophy case. She'd picked it for its distance from most of the school's drama. That peace lasted exactly two minutes.
Because there he was.
Leaning against locker 211B, wearing a maroon t-shirt that clung too easily to his arms, black jeans slung low, a water bottle tucked under one arm like he owned the air itself.
JaceRivera.
Lena didn't hate a lot of people. But she hated Jace.
It was the kind of hate you earned. The slow-cooked, marinated-in-bitter-silence kind that came from three long years of being forced into the same AP classes, always one seat away, always opposite.
It started sophomore year in Honors English. Mr. Whitaker asked who wanted to debate Hamlet's guilt. Jace said, "I'll take guilt," just as Lena said, "I'll take guilt," and they both refused to back down. The class cheered. Mr. Whitaker made them rivals. It never stopped.
Now they couldn't even breathe the same air without tension thickening between them.
"You're kidding me," Lena muttered under her breath as she approached her locker.
Jace looked up slowly, one brow lifting like he was waiting for applause. "Carter," he said, nodding once. "You look... exactly the same."
Lena forced a tight-lipped smile. "Rivera. You still pretending to read books or just using them to prop up your ego?"
He smirked, and damn it, it was the kind of smirk that looked better than it should've.
"I missed this," he said, and then turned back to his locker, spinning the dial casually.
Lena didn't reply. She jammed her key into her own lock and opened it with unnecessary force. The metal clanged. She shoved her tote bag inside and pulled out her copy of *The Bell Jar*, mostly just to irritate him. Jace hated Sylvia Plath. Said she was "a genius with too much darkness and not enough chill."
"Still trying to be the brooding poet?" he asked, nodding toward the book.
"Still trying to fake intelligence with charm?"
Jace shrugged, completely unfazed. "Fake's such a harsh word. I prefer 'selectively applied effort.'"
Lena slammed her locker shut and turned away before he could come up with another smug reply. She stalked off down the hallway toward third period—Senior Lit—and told herself it wasn't a big deal. She could ignore him.
Then she walked into the classroom... and the universe laughed in her face.
Mr. Dalton, a wiry man with glasses that constantly slid down his nose, stood at the whiteboard. He smiled like he'd just solved world hunger.
"I'm pairing you all for the senior literature capstone," he announced. "One partner, one project, due midterm. This is fifty percent of your grade. You'll pick a theme, choose a book that explores that theme, and create a dual-narrative essay on how the story's tension transforms its characters."
There were collective groans.
Lena reached for her notebook. She could already picture herself partnered with Clara Greaves—quiet, focused, no nonsense. They could work in silence and be done in a week.
But then Mr. Dalton began reading the pairs aloud.
"Clara and Tyson."
No problem.
"Imani and Rose."
Fine.
"Lena Carter and—" he paused, glancing at his clipboard.
Her stomach dropped.
"—Jace Rivera."
The room exploded with noise. A few students snorted. Someone whispered, "Ohhh no." A kid in the back whispered, "Bet someone's gonna die."
Jace let out a low, dramatic whistle.
"Well," he said, dragging his desk toward Lena's with infuriating calm, "looks like fate ships us."
Lena didn't move.
She stared at the whiteboard like maybe, if she focused hard enough, she could rewrite time itself.
"Mr. Dalton," she said, raising her hand. "Can I switch partners?"
"Nope," Dalton said cheerfully. "Your essays will be stronger with tension. You two have... plenty."
Jace turned toward her, eyebrows raised. "Guess we're the model couple."
"We're not a couple," she snapped.
He leaned in just a little, his voice low. "Not yet."
Lena clutched her pen so hard the cap popped off.
She wasn't going to survive this year.
Not if Jace Rivera was going to sit beside her every day, smirking like the world was a stage and she was his favorite scene.
---