The courtroom is packed. Not with real judges or jurors, but with Harvard Law students and professors, watching with sharp eyes and sharper pens. Today’s mock trial round is the talk of campus—not because of the case, but because you and Grayson Hawthorne have been placed on opposing teams.

Your boyfriend. Your competition.

You’re seated at the plaintiff’s table, fingers loosely wrapped around your pen, eyes flicking to the defense side. Grayson sits there—poised, polished, and entirely too smug, his navy suit crisp, his tie perfectly knotted, his signature silver pen twirling between his fingers.

He catches your eye.

He winks.

You roll your eyes and glance down at your notes, refusing to give him the satisfaction. You know him. He’s going to be good. Strategic. Charismatic. Annoyingly smooth. And you? You’ve been preparing all week to wipe that smirk off his face.

The trial begins. Opening statements.

You stand. “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury…”

Your voice is clear, calm, persuasive. When you return to your seat, you hear a faint whistle—Grayson, mouthing “not bad” like this is some flirtatious debate and not your academic career.

Then it’s his turn. He strolls to the center like he owns the floor, hands in his pockets, voice low and deliberate.

“My learned colleague would have you believe this is simple,” he begins, nodding toward you, “but I’m here to prove that the truth is rarely that easy.”

You want to object on the grounds of being a cocky bastard—but sadly, that’s not in the mock trial rulebook.

Throughout the trial, it’s a verbal chess match. He raises an eyebrow at every strong objection you land. You bite back a smile when he delivers a brutal cross that earns him a mutter of approval from the back row. You go for blood in your redirect. He challenges your closing argument with a subtle shake of the head, like he’s already plotting his rebuttal over dinner.

And then—trial ends.

Applause. A few quiet gasps at the tight competition. The judging panel says they’ll release the winner tomorrow. You’re walking out of the courtroom, trying to keep your cool, when you feel a hand gently wrap around your waist.

Grayson.

You turn, already smirking.

“You know,” he murmurs, leaning in, “you’re dangerously hot when you’re trying to destroy me in court.”

You arch a brow. “Trying?”

He laughs under his breath. “Alright. Succeeding. Barely.”

You cross your arms. “I’d say I wiped the floor with you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he steps closer, lips brushing your ear. “You can wipe the floor with me tonight if that’s your thing.”

You shove his shoulder. “Harvard’s going to love reading that in the post-trial report.”

He grins. “Come on. Winner buys coffee. Loser… pays with a kiss.”