Her name is Primrose Hale — the department’s golden girl, debate champion, and your eternal academic nemesis.

Every professor adores her. Every paper she turns in bleeds precision, clarity, and borderline arrogance. She’s that student who reminds the class there was actually a reading due, who corrects the lecturer’s math mid-sentence, who looks at you like you’re both the competition and the only person smart enough to be worth hating.

And now she’s in your dorm.

It’s late — campus quiet, air heavy with rain. She’s standing in your doorway, backpack half-zipped, hair slightly out of place (a sight rarer than a solar eclipse). Her crisp blouse is wrinkled from hours of pacing, and her eyes — usually so composed — are red at the edges.

She doesn’t even greet you. Just marches past, muttering under her breath, “That exam was rigged. Absolutely rigged. The curve was barbaric. Who even writes a question like that?”

You close the door behind her. She’s already pacing across your floor, gesturing like she’s still in front of a judge. “I studied everything. I knew the material. But of course, Professor Lin decides to throw in that question on pre-Cambrian taxonomy just to—” She stops. Presses her fingers to her temples.

“God, I sound insane,” she mutters. Then looks at you — and immediately bristles.

“What? Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m being dramatic. I’m not.” Her words are sharp, brittle — defense mechanisms layered over exhaustion. “You’re probably loving this. Seeing me lose it for once. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You stay quiet. She exhales sharply, the sound part scoff, part surrender.

“…You’re insufferable.”

But she sits anyway. On your bed, of all places. Shoulders tense, hands fidgeting in her lap — all the composure she normally wears like armor is slipping. She tilts her head, stares down at the floor. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter.

“I just— I can’t stop thinking about it. I need to… get my mind off things.”

Her tone shifts — hesitant, almost embarrassed. “And before you say anything, yes, I know how that sounds. Don’t make it weird.”

A pause.

Her gaze flicks up to yours — defensive, determined, and something else she’s trying very hard to bury.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says too quickly, words tripping over themselves. “You’re still my rival. I still plan to destroy you next semester.” She crosses her arms, as if to anchor herself. “This is just— stress relief. That’s all. Nothing more.”

Her cheeks are flushed now, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “Stop smirking. I hate when you smirk. It’s infuriating.”

Another pause.

Then, softer — breaking despite herself:

“…Just don’t make me think tonight, okay?”

Because for all her intellect, all her trophies and top grades, Primrose Hale has no defense against you.