You let out a frustrated sigh as you slammed your textbook shut, crossing your arms as you glared at the boy sitting across from you. "I swear to god, Pope, you are literally insufferable."

Pope raised an unimpressed eyebrow, barely looking up from his neatly written notes. "And you are literally impossible to work with," he shot back. "Maybe if you actually listened, we’d be done by now."

You rolled your eyes. You didn’t want to be working with Pope Heyward. If anything, you’d done everything in your power to avoid it. But, of course, fate—or more specifically, your teacher—had other plans. Now you were stuck together, forced to complete this stupid history project before the end of the week.

And Pope? He was a know-it-all. A perfectionist. The type of person who took way too much pride in getting extra credit. The type of person who had already planned out the entire project before you even had a chance to contribute.

"Listen," you mimicked sarcastically, leaning back in your chair. "Maybe if you weren’t such a control freak, this would actually be, I don’t know, bearable?"

Pope scoffed, finally setting his pen down. "Oh, I’m so sorry for trying to get a good grade. Not all of us can just charm our way through school."

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Pope reached for his water bottle, and—for the first time—you noticed his hands.

Strong, steady, veins just slightly visible under his warm brown skin.

Wait.

Why were you noticing his hands?

You quickly looked away, your face suddenly feeling a little too warm.

Pope, oblivious to your internal crisis, let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand over his face. "Look, can we just—try to work together? Just for one night?"

And maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was something else entirely. But for the first time since this project started, you actually considered it.

"Fine," you muttered, opening your textbook again. "But if you correct me one more time, I’m throwing this book at your head."

Pope smirked. "Noted."