Chapter 7: Detention & Distractions
823 Words
If you’d asked Lena Carter yesterday whether she’d ever be in detention, she would’ve laughed in your face.
But today? She was very much in detention—thanks to an overly passionate debate with Mr. Riles about misused semicolons and his tragic inability to follow basic grammar rules.
“He said I intimidated him,” Lena muttered under her breath, dropping into the last seat by the window in Room 204.
“Because you corrected his syllabus,” Jace said from beside her, all grin and leather jacket and way too much amusement. “With red ink. On a whiteboard.”
“It was incorrect,” she hissed.
“And now you’re a rebel,” he said, stretching like a cat in his chair. “My influence is working.”
She narrowed her eyes. “This is your fault.”
He feigned innocence. “I wasn’t even in the room.”
“You smiled at me through the door while I was yelling.”
“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “You looked hot mid-rant.”
Lena flushed so hard she nearly combusted.
“Mr. Blackwood. Ms. Carter,” came the grumble from the front of the room. Mr. Doolan, who was halfway through a microwaved burrito and three levels of over-it, barely looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Quiet work time.”
Lena opened her planner like a lifeline. Jace opened… absolutely nothing.
“You’re not going to pretend to work?” she whispered.
He leaned in just enough for her heart to trip. “Nope. I’m here for the company.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“You’re in my hoodie.”
“You gave it to me.”
“You kept it.”
Lena glared at her notebook. “We are not talking.”
“You’re literally talking right now.”
“I hate you.”
“I know,” he said, grinning. “But I’m growing on you.”
“You’re like a fungus.”
“A sexy fungus.”
She snorted—just a tiny, reluctant laugh that she immediately regretted giving him. His eyes lit up.
“There it is,” he said softly.
“There what is?”
“A laugh. I knew it lived in there somewhere.”
Lena tried to hide her smile behind her hand. Jace leaned back, victorious, like he’d just solved world peace with nothing but charm and bad posture.
⸻
The minutes ticked by. Mr. Doolan began snoring softly.
Jace tilted his head toward her again. “Wanna make a bet?”
“No.”
“C’mon. I’m bored. You owe me for the hoodie.”
“I didn’t realize accepting kindness was a contract.”
“It is. So. Here’s the deal: first one to make Mr. Doolan stir gets to demand one truth from the loser.”
Lena raised a brow. “Truth? Like a confession?”
“Exactly. Nothing cruel. Nothing too deep. Just… real.”
She hesitated. Then smirked. “You’re on.”
Jace cleared his throat dramatically, stretched, and let out a loud, theatrical sigh. Mr. Doolan didn’t even twitch.
Lena leaned forward. “Mr. Doolan? Hypothetically, if Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe got in a fistfight, who do you think would win?”
A snort. Then a muttered, “Poe. That guy was unhinged.”
Jace groaned. “You witch.”
Lena grinned, triumphant. “One truth, Blackwood. Cough it up.”
He leaned on his desk, face close, expression unreadable. “Fine. Truth? I lied about the hoodie.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I brought it that day hoping you’d be cold. So I could give it to you.”
Her heart. Stopped.
“I… oh.”
“Your turn,” he said smoothly.
“No way. I won.”
“Which means you get the prize. But I want to play, too.”
She hesitated.
“I like rules,” she said finally, voice quiet. “Because when people break promises or walk away, rules are the one thing I can still count on.”
Jace looked at her for a long moment, the playfulness fading from his eyes. “Hey,” he said softly. “I don’t plan on walking away.”
She looked away. “You say that now.”
“Then let me prove it.”
The silence stretched, thick with something neither of them was ready to name.
Mr. Doolan snorted awake, grunted something about “youth” and “no respect,” and waved them off without looking.
They gathered their things in silence, walking into the dim hallway together.
“You hungry?” Jace asked.
“I could eat.”
“There’s this taco place. Greasy. Suspiciously cheap. Might give us food poisoning.”
She smiled. “Perfect.”
And just like that, they left detention behind—side by side, a little closer, a little messier, and undeniably something.
- Writer
