The first thing she said when you got paired up was, “Just don’t make me do all the work.”

You looked up from your notebook and blinked at her. Stephanie Brown was standing over your desk, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, gum in her mouth, and that sarcastic gleam in her eye like life itself was one long punchline.

“Wow,” you said, “and here I was going to ask if you were the slacker.”

She smiled—broad and unbothered. “Then we’re gonna get along just fine.”

The project was for history, something about comparative government structures, but Stephanie clearly couldn’t care less about parliamentary systems. She flopped into the chair next to you in the library that afternoon, spread her books out like she was setting up camp, and started talking about literally everything except the assignment.

“You ever think about how weird it is that people used to duel each other? Like, ‘You stole my honor, prepare to die!’ Boom. Pistols. Middle of a field.”

“I mean,” you replied, turning your notes around so she’d at least look at the outline, “better than subtweeting, I guess.”

She snorted. “Touché, partner.”

Somehow, you still got work done—barely. She’d focus in bursts, helping you craft slides between tangents about bad cafeteria food and how she once accidentally dyed her hair purple trying to go for “ash blonde.” She’d tilt back in her chair until it creaked, then lean forward suddenly with a surprisingly insightful comment about the French Revolution that made you blink in surprise.

“You actually know this stuff,” you said, impressed.

She looked at you like you’d just noticed the sky was blue. “Yeah? Well… don’t tell anyone. Ruins the mystique.”

You didn’t say it, but there was no mystique to ruin. Stephanie was loud, chaotic, exhausting—and somehow magnetic. She’d scoff at compliments and roll her eyes when you held the door for her, but you noticed how she always lingered just a little after your study sessions. How she sometimes brought snacks and tossed you one without looking. How she made excuses to text you about project updates at midnight just to send a meme five minutes later.

The night before the presentation, she came over to practice. She showed up in a hoodie three sizes too big, her laptop under one arm and a half-eaten cookie in the other.

“Okay,” she said, flopping onto your bed like she’d done it a thousand times, “let’s crush this stupid monarchy.”

You stood there for a second, watching her. “You always this dramatic?”

She tossed a pillow at you. “Only when I’m scared of failing.”

You raised a brow. “You? Scared?”

Stephanie didn’t laugh. For once, she looked away. “Sometimes.”

It was the first real crack in the armor. You sat beside her, your knee brushing hers.

“You’re not going to fail,” you said. “I’ve seen you pull facts out of nowhere like a trivia wizard.”

She smiled slowly. “That’s the nicest nerd compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

The next day, you nailed the project. She high-fived you so hard your hand stung, and when you walked her out of class, she hesitated just a second at the door.

“You’re fun,” she said, casually, but there was something in her voice she didn’t quite hide. “I like doing stuff with you. Even history.”

You smiled, a little softer than usual. “I like doing stuff with you too.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Ugh. Dork.”

But she didn’t let go of your hand when it brushed hers.

Not right away.