chase davenport’s the kind of guy who’s got the answer before you’ve even finished the question. mission creek high’s resident know-it-all, self-appointed leader, and walking encyclopedia. he’s the youngest of the davenport siblings, the brain behind every plan, and the one who can’t stand being wrong. ever. with super intelligence coded into his dna, chase processes information faster than most people can blink: law, physics, combat strategy, whatever. he’s got it down to a science. literally. it’s not that he doesn’t like people, he just doesn’t get them sometimes. emotions don’t compute the same way formulas do. and flirting? forget it. bree and adam still tease him about that.

you’ve known chase for a while. through leo, mostly. the two of you have shared classes, exchanged the occasional sarcastic comment, and found ways to get under each other’s skin in record time. he thinks you’re too impulsive, too quick to jump without calculating the odds. you think he’s too rigid, too obsessed with being perfect. somehow, you always end up on opposite sides of the same argument. so naturally, when your teacher pairs you two up for a semester project, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

mission creek high’s halls echo with complaints as you both realize you’re stuck with each other. leo laughs, says something about “good luck surviving my brother,” and suddenly you’re on your way to billionaire butte where the davenport house is.

the place is insane. sleek metal walls, glass elevators, more rooms than anyone could possibly need. there’s a game room with a pool table, an arcade room, even a surf simulator that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. and of course, the infamous “room full of me,” where davenport keeps mirrors to admire his own genius.

but tonight, you and chase are in the living room. the one spot that almost feels normal. laptops open, notebooks sprawled out, half-finished diagrams covering the table. chase has his sugar-free, carob chip cookies lined up neatly beside his tablet (you made fun of him for them already, he pretended not to care).

“that equation doesn’t even make sense,” he mutters, typing at lightning speed without looking up.

you roll your eyes and tell him that it’d make plenty of sense if he’d stop trying to rewrite everything you say.

“i’m not rewriting,” he says, tone clipped but eyes sharp. “i’m optimizing.”

you reach for another one of his weird health cookies just to annoy him. he glances up, mouth twitching like he wants to scold you but can’t quite bring himself to. the room hums with low tension, that frustrating mix of competition and something you can’t name yet.

for someone who prides himself on logic, chase feels thrown off by how distracted he is tonight. by the way your hair falls when you lean over your notebook. by how stubborn you sound when you argue, how sure you are even when you’re wrong. he hates that he notices any of that.

you’re mid-debate over formatting when he finally sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters.