Chapter 3 – Sparks and Shadows
The first week with Adrian Cole in class felt like living under a spotlight. He wasn't just the new boy—he was sharp, witty, and unbothered by the whispers that usually followed me. And for reasons I didn't yet understand, he had this way of looking at me like he could see past the carefully built walls I'd surrounded myself with.
By Tuesday, the inevitable happened. Our English Literature teacher announced a debate on themes in Othello—fate versus choice—and paired me against Adrian. Of course.
I had always been good at debates, but I hadn't expected him to meet me word for word, his sharp tone pressing against mine like swords clashing.
"Choice," I argued, my voice steady. "Othello chooses jealousy. He chooses to believe Iago. Every downfall begins with a choice."
Adrian leaned back in his chair, smirking as if the class was a stage and he'd been waiting for his cue. "Or maybe it's fate. Othello was destined to fall. Every choice he made was just another step toward what couldn't be avoided."
The class giggled. I clenched my jaw. "That's a lazy excuse for poor decisions."
"And that," he countered, leaning forward, "is a naïve way of thinking. People aren't as in control as they like to believe."
For a moment, his eyes held mine—dark, unwavering, almost challenging me to step closer into his world. My breath hitched, though I quickly masked it with a roll of my eyes.
"Naïve?" I said, sharper than I meant. "Remind me never to ask for your advice on anything."
The bell rang, sparing me from his smirk that seemed carved to get under my skin.
At basketball practice later that day, I suddenly noticed him again. He wasn't playing—he was sitting in the bleachers, scribbling in a battered notebook. Every so often, his gaze flicked to me, and I hated the way my stomach twisted when our eyes met.
I missed a pass because of him. The ball slammed against my shoulder, and I stumbled back. My teammate muttered something about me being distracted. I flushed, glancing toward the bleachers. Adrian wasn't laughing. He was watching, his head tilted slightly, as if he was trying to read a secret written on my face, which there wasn't...
When practice ended, I grabbed my bag and stormed toward the exit, determined not to care. The squeak of sneakers behind me stopped me.
"You play like you're carrying ghosts," Adrian said.
I froze, whipping around. "Excuse me?"
He stood there, tall and annoyingly calm, his notebook tucked under his arm. "You've got skill, no doubt. But it's like you're holding back, like something's dragging you down."
"Maybe I just don't need advice from someone who can't even dribble a ball," I snapped.
I tried to push past him, but his hand shot out instinctively, catching my wrist. The contact was electric, sending a jolt up my arm. My breath caught. For a second, neither of us moved. His grip wasn't tight, just steady, grounding.
Slowly, he let go, his expression unreadable. "Touchy," he muttered, though his voice was softer than his words.
I walked away, my pulse thundering in my ears.
The week dragged on with more of the same—snide remarks, subtle challenges, and an unspoken current pulling us together even as we pushed apart.
By Friday, fate—or maybe cruel humor—placed us side by side in Chemistry. The teacher paired lab partners randomly, and when I heard, "Laurence Daisy and Adrian Cole," I nearly groaned aloud.
He gave me that smirk again. "Looks like fate wins this round."
"Don't start," I warned.
We began the experiment in strained silence, measuring and mixing. I tried to focus, but my hand brushed his more than once as we reached for the same beaker. Each time, my stomach flipped. Once, the back of his hand grazed mine, and instead of pulling away immediately, he lingered—just a heartbeat too long.
"You're distracted," he murmured.
"Maybe because someone won't stop hovering," I shot back, though my cheeks burned.
He chuckled under his breath, that low, infuriating sound that made it impossible to tell if he was mocking me or…. something else.
At one point, I leaned too close while reading the measurements, and our shoulders pressed together. The warmth of him bled through my uniform, and for a split second, the world outside that lab ceased to exist.
I pulled back quickly, pretending to adjust the beaker. But my hands shook just enough to betray me.
That evening, walking home with my headphones on, I sensed someone behind me. I turned to see Adrian a few steps back, hands shoved into his pockets.
"You're following me now?" I asked.
"It's called walking home. We happen to live in the same direction."
I snorted, turning back around. The silence between us wasn't awkward, though—it was heavy, charged.
At the corner near my street, I stumbled over a crack in the pavement. Before I could hit the ground, Adrian's hand shot out, catching me by the elbow. The touch steadied me, firm yet careful.
"You really need to watch where you are going," he said softly.
I muttered thanks, pulling away too quickly, but my skin tingled where his hand had been.
We stood there, the night air thick around us. His gaze lingered on me, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might say something—something that would change the battlefield we'd been waging all week.
Instead, he just gave me a faint smile and said, "See you Monday, Daisy."
And then he walked away, leaving me rooted to the spot, wondering why my heart was racing so fast.
That night, as I lay in bed staring lost at the ceiling, I told myself I couldn't stand Adrian Cole. He was arrogant, smug, and impossible.
But deep down in my heart, I knew I was definitely lying.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel the ghost of his hand against my skin.