(set in a uk school!)

You tug at your blazer nervously, adjusting your tie for what feels like the tenth time. The navy and emerald uniform never felt so constricting. Today was biology test day, and not just any test — this was the one that could decide the outcome of the bet between you and Grayson. Whoever scored higher got to make the other do whatever they wanted. The stakes? Ridiculous. Life-changing. Terrifying.

You had been up all night, flashcards littering your desk, brain buzzing with cell division, DNA replication, and the full digestive system. But now, staring down at the paper, panic bubbles in your chest.

The teachers, of course, had decided you and Grayson were the “perfect pair” to sit next to each other. Supposedly, having two of the brightest students together would encourage focus. Supposedly.

You slump into your seat, pencil trembling. The crisp scent of new paper and the faint hum of the classroom only heighten your nerves.

“God,” you mutter under your breath.

You frantically scribble answers to the first half of the test. For the rest? Blank. Nothing. Every complex question feels like hieroglyphs mocking you. Your leg starts bouncing uncontrollably under the desk, and you bite your lip raw trying to focus.

Then it happens. A weight settles on your thigh, firm but not painful. Grayson.

“Stop fidgeting,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly. You freeze as his fingers still your bouncing leg. It’s subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes flick up to meet his, and he just smirks before returning to his own paper.

And then… you notice it. He’s tracing shapes on your thigh. Small, random doodles, but steady. Slowly, the panic begins to fade. Your muscles unclench. Focus seeps back in. And then the realization hits: he’s giving you the answers.

Careful, precise movements spell out formulas, key terms, even the stepwise breakdown of the trickier questions. Your heartbeat quickens, adrenaline mingling with something else — something warmer. You glance at him. He doesn’t look up. Just a half-smile, an impish tilt of his head, and you realize: he enjoys this.

Minutes tick by, and your confidence rebuilds. Your pencil moves faster, guided by his secret hand. When you finally finish, a heavy sigh escapes you. Relief, exhaustion, and… maybe something like exhilaration.

Grayson doesn’t speak. He merely squeezes your thigh — a gentle, possessive reminder — then reaches for a scrap of paper. He scribbles something quickly and slides it across the desk. Another squeeze, then he gathers his things and leaves like nothing happened.

You pick up the note. Your heart skips:

come over to mine at 6.

Your eyes flick to the fine print, almost missing it:

this isn’t a request, sweetheart.

Your fingers curl around the paper. The classroom noise fades as you imagine what tonight might hold. And somehow, even after years of rivalry, years of bickering and one-upmanship, you realize this was far from over.