If there was one thing everyone in class agreed on, it was this: When you and Leighton Murray were on opposite sides of a debate, the room caught fire.

It didn’t matter the topic—politics, philosophy, ethics, literature—you always ended up standing across from each other, eyes locked, voices steady, refusing to back down.

“And that argument falls apart under basic logic,” you finished coolly.

Leighton lifted a brow. “Only if you ignore the entire second half of the theory—which you conveniently did.”

Groans rippled through the room. The teacher sighed. “Not again…”

You never hated her. That was the problem.

You respected her mind too much. The way she never hesitated. Never softened her intelligence. Never let anyone speak over her. And she hated that you matched her every time—question for question, point for point.

Rivals.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Until one afternoon when you were both forced to work together.

The teacher dropped the assignment like a threat. “You two. Partners. Debating together at regionals.”

The room exploded with reactions. You and Leighton just stared at each other in disbelief.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she muttered.

“Trust me,” you replied, “I’m suffering too.”

The first study session was a disaster. You argued more than you worked.

“This approach is weak,” she snapped.