Chapter 4 – Forced Together
If there was one thing I hated more than whispers behind my back, it was fate laughing in my face. And fate had a wicked sense of humor.
Monday morning, I slid into my seat in English, praying to blend into the chatter. The teacher cleared her throat and announced a semester-long group project. My stomach twisted the second she began reading out names.
"Laurence Daisy… Adrian Cole."
A few students snickered. One girl whispered, "Perfect, beauty and the beast." My cheeks burned, though I couldn't tell if it was anger or something else. Adrian, seated a row behind me, just smirked like he'd been expecting this.
When class ended, he sauntered over, notebook tucked under his arm. "Guess you're stuck with me, Daisy."
I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't make it sound like I'm the unlucky one."
"Oh, but you are," he said, lowering his voice just enough for only me to hear. "I take projects very seriously. I'll expect nothing less than perfection."
Arrogant. Infuriating. Unbearable.
And yet, when he leaned a little closer, that same jolt I'd felt before—like static under my skin—returned. I straightened immediately, clutching my books tighter.
"Fine," I said coolly. "My place. After school."
By late afternoon, I was pacing my bedroom, regretting every decision that had led to this moment. My mansion felt even bigger when I thought about Adrian walking through its halls. He didn't belong here, and somehow that thought unsettled me.
The doorbell rang. My mother's heels clicked faintly in the distance before fading—too busy, as always, to answer. So I went myself.
And there he was. Adrian Cole, in a worn gray hoodie and dark jeans, looking so out of place against the polished marble entryway that it almost made me laugh.
"Nice house," he said casually, though his eyes flicked over the chandelier, the sweeping staircase, the portraits lining the walls. His voice was calm, but something about the way his jaw tightened told me he was holding back an opinion.
"Don't get used to it," I muttered, leading him upstairs.
We settled in the library—my father's library, really. The scent of old leather and faint cologne clung to the room. Adrian glanced around, his gaze lingering on the wall of framed photographs. One in particular—the basketball team photo with my dad in the center—made him pause.
"You shouldn't snoop," I snapped, sharper than I intended.
"I wasn't," he said, turning back to me with a raised brow. "Just… observing."
The air between us thickened, and for a moment I felt like he'd seen too much. I quickly pulled out my notes, pretending to busy myself with the project.
We worked in silence at first. I jotted ideas; he scribbled in his notebook. But the quiet wasn't comfortable—it was charged, humming with unspoken words.
"So," Adrian finally said, leaning over to peek at my notes. Our shoulders brushed, sending a ripple down my spine. "You actually have neat handwriting. Didn't expect that."
"Wow," I said dryly. "Such a compliment."
"I'm serious," he insisted, his lips quirking. "Mine looks like a doctor's prescription."
"Figures," I muttered.
His chuckle was low, warm, and far too distracting. I tried focusing on my pen, but then a strand of hair slipped into my face. Before I could tuck it back, Adrian reached out. His fingers brushed lightly against my cheek as he tucked the strand behind my ear.
I froze. So did he.
"Sorry," he murmured, pulling back quickly, but the ghost of his touch lingered like a spark refusing to fade.
I swallowed hard, forcing my attention to the textbook. "Let's… let's stay on task."
An hour passed. Despite myself, I started noticing things—how his brows furrowed when he was concentrating, how he tapped his pen against his notebook when thinking, how he smelled faintly of cedar and soap.
At one point, we leaned over the same page to analyze a passage. Our arms pressed together, and neither of us moved. My heartbeat quickened, thudding loud in my ears. I shifted slightly, but he leaned closer instead, his breath brushing my cheek as he whispered, "You're blushing."
"I am not," I hissed, jerking back. My hand knocked over the beaker of tea I'd been sipping, spilling across the table.
Adrian jumped up, grabbing tissues from the side shelf. He reached across me, his arm brushing against mine as he dabbed at the mess. Too close. Way too close.
I snatched the tissues from him, muttering, "I can handle it."
"Clearly," he said, but his smirk had softened into something gentler, almost amused.
By evening, the sun dipped low, casting golden light across the room. Adrian leaned back in his chair, stretching. The hem of his hoodie lifted slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above his jeans. I caught myself staring, then quickly snapped my gaze away, heat rushing to my cheeks.
"You okay?" he asked, watching me too closely.
"Yes," I said too quickly.
He didn't press, just leaned forward again, eyes searching mine in a way that made me squirm. Then, unexpectedly, his voice softened.
"My dad… he works two jobs. We've never had much, but he's always tried to give me what he could. I guess… I admire that."
The honesty in his tone caught me off guard. For once, the arrogance was gone, replaced by something raw.
I nodded slowly. "Mine… well, he used to be here all the time. Then one day he wasn't. And it feels like the house hasn't breathed since."
Silence. Not awkward, but heavy. Our eyes met, and in that moment, I knew he understood loneliness, even if in a different shape.
By the time he left, the project was only half done, but something else had shifted.
At the door, he paused, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You're not as unbearable as I thought, Daisy."
I rolled my eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."
He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. "And for the record… you do blush."
Before I could retort, he was gone, leaving me leaning against the doorframe, my heart racing like I'd just run a marathon.
That night, as I lay in bed, I replayed the touch of his fingers against my cheek, the warmth of his arm brushing mine, the intensity in his gaze.
I told myself he was just a project partner. Just a rival. Just a boy I couldn't stand.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
Something was changing. And I wasn't sure if I was ready for it.