The last person you wanted to get paired with for chemistry class was Sevika.

Not because she wasn’t smart—she was sharp as hell, especially when it came to practical stuff like balancing equations or setting up lab equipment. No, it was because Sevika had a reputation.

Star of the hockey team, infamous for that brutal check last season that landed her in the penalty box for almost an entire game, and a walking storm cloud with a permanent “don’t mess with me” glare. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, her words were blunt enough to make people flinch. Rumor had it she once told a substitute teacher to “get their act together” in the middle of a lesson.

And now? Now you were stuck with her as your lab partner.

She didn’t say anything when you slid into the seat next to her, just glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. Her grey eyes had this unnerving sharpness, like she was sizing you up to decide if you were worth her time. You could see the faint scar cutting across her left eyebrow and the chipped black polish on her nails as she twirled a pencil between her fingers.

“Don’t screw this up,” she finally said, her voice low and edged with warning.

Yeah, no pressure.