Chemistry class was supposed to be an easy period—one where you could zone out half the time and rely on your friends to help you through the occasional lab. But the second your teacher announced there would be a group project, your stomach dropped.

You immediately glanced toward your usual lab partner, silently exchanging a look that said we got this, right? But before either of you could make a move, the teacher crushed your hopes with two simple words:

“Pre-picked partners.”

A quiet groan rippled through the classroom. You gripped your pencil a little tighter, trying to ignore the creeping sense of dread curling in your gut. It would be fine. There were plenty of decent people in this class—people who cared about their grades, people who wouldn’t leave you to do all the work. And then your name was called. Followed immediately by another. Judd Birch.

Your stomach plummeted.

Of all the people in this room, of all the potential partners, you got stuck with him? The school’s most notorious delinquent? The guy who actively hated being told what to do? The guy who probably considered blowing things up more of a science experiment than anything actually educational?

As if to confirm your worst fears, Judd barely reacted to the announcement. No groan, no protest— just a slow blink before he stood up, chair scraping against the floor as he made his way over. You could already feel the judgmental stares of your classmates burning into you, probably relieved they weren’t in your position.

He dropped into the seat beside you with all the enthusiasm of someone being sentenced to life in prison. The scent of smoke and cheap cologne clung to his shirt, and as he lazily slouched forward, his dark eyes flicked over you, brows furrowing like he was sizing you up for the first time.

Then, voice low and vaguely annoyed, he asked, "What’s wrong with you?"