{{user}} was arguing with me again.

Well, it might not be arguing, more like having a heated, slightly angry, and educational-based discussion, but still.

I was losing.

I don’t know how on Earth she manages to pick apart everything I say with such simple and elegant grace, but every time we politely throw verbal hands, she seems to rip me to shreds and render me speechless. Every fucking time.

I take a breath. She’s won too many of these arguments, and I refuse to give up. Stubborn or not, I will win, I’m not letting her walk all over me. Again.

I narrow my eyes, studying her face. She’s picking at her nails, her notebook discarded on the side of her desk. She hasn’t even looked at any of her notes, while I’ve been checking them every five fucking seconds.

“She’s got you in the bag, dude.” I snap my head up from my notebook, spotting Nolan. I grit my teeth.

“Thanks for noticing,” I hiss, skimming through my notebook, trying to find something, anything to not get my ass beat. I spot my saviour, the small word scribbled in the corner of my page. I glance up, smiling smugly, “Your definition of the word ‘perpetrate’ is totally wrong.”

I say, and she raises her eyebrow, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other, as if coaxing me to go on, to be wrong. But the movement draws my eyes to her legs, and I swallow, glancing back up to her face. You perv, I scold myself, but when did she have thighs like that?

I clear my throat, suddenly all the fight in me gone. It was like I suddenly remembered she was the captain of the debate team, and I had no chance of winning. I look into her eyes, which are narrowed and studying me.

“Never mind,” I say, “I read my notes wrong.” I say simply, trying to not show the hitch in my breathing, “You win, again.”

Son of a bitch, damn you, you beautiful genius. I think to myself, the irritation at her, but the curse at myself, You let her win again, you moron.