Chapter 3: Accidentally Yours
829 Words
By the time Lena got to school the next morning, she’d convinced herself that last night was not a thing.
It was a study session. Nothing more. She’d definitely not flirted. Jace definitely hadn’t almost kissed her. And she had definitely not spent twenty full minutes lying in bed afterward replaying everything he’d said and wondering what his hair smelled like. (It was probably danger and rebellion. Maybe expensive shampoo.)
“Lena!” Maddy threw herself into step beside her in the hallway, sipping an iced coffee the size of her head. “Tell me everything.”
“About what?”
“Don’t play dumb. You had a study date with Mr. Motorcycle. I expect a full report, starting with what he was wearing and ending with whether or not he tried to climb in your window like a teenage vampire.”
Lena gave her a flat look. “We worked on the project. He brought root beer. No one climbed anything.”
Maddy pouted. “Lame. Was there at least eye contact?”
Lena hesitated. “Maybe. A little. He… kind of has this way of looking at you like you’re both a joke and a puzzle.”
Maddy wiggled her eyebrows. “That’s bad boy for he likes you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Jace doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like anything. His favorite book character is literally a sociopath.”
“Hot.”
“Help me.”
⸻
In English Lit, they were paired up again—obviously. As if fate (or maybe Ms. Tompkins) had a twisted sense of humor. Lena sat at their usual desk, already pulling out her notes, when Jace dropped into the seat beside her like gravity was a casual suggestion.
“Morning, sunshine.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? It suits you. All bright and burny.”
Lena rolled her eyes. “You’re the worst.”
“I try.”
They went over their scene analysis for the presentation, and Lena found herself—annoyingly—laughing more than she’d planned. Jace kept doodling dramatic stick-figure battles in the margins of his paper, acting out lines from the book in a British accent that would’ve made Shakespeare roll over in his grave.
When class ended, she was still chuckling. She stood to pack her bag—
—and her binder slipped off the desk, exploding open like a paper grenade.
Pages flew everywhere. Her neatly organized, highlighter-coded, tabbed-with-love system was scattered across the floor like confetti.
“No no no no—!” Lena dropped to her knees in panic mode.
Jace crouched beside her, helping scoop up papers. “Whoa. This is… intense. Do you know how many trees died for this?”
“Don’t joke. This is a system. I have a folder for every unit and color codes for subthemes and annotations—”
“I’m guessing ‘chill’ isn’t one of your folders.”
“Keep talking and you’ll end up in the Trash folder.”
He smirked, handing her a crumpled sheet. “You’re cute when you panic.”
Lena froze.
Did he just—
Her brain short-circuited, but before she could even begin to process what he’d said, she reached for another paper—just as Jace did—and their hands collided.
Electric. There was no other word for it.
Her hand on his. His hand on hers. Both of them froze, and Lena was acutely aware of how warm his skin was. How close they were. How this moment felt… weirdly loaded.
Jace didn’t move.
Neither did she.
And then—mercifully, or not—Maddy called from the hallway: “Lena! We’re gonna be late for calculus!”
Lena jerked back like she’d touched fire. She stuffed the remaining papers into her binder, muttered something that vaguely resembled “thanks,” and bolted.
⸻
That night, Jace texted her.
Yes, texted. Apparently, he had gotten her number from a group chat she didn’t remember joining.
Jace Blackwood (2 New Messages):
You okay?
Binder meltdown looked serious.
Lena stared at the screen. Should she ignore him? Pretend she was too busy doing something academically noble? Instead, her fingers betrayed her:
Lena:
My organizational system is in mourning.
There will be a candlelight vigil at 8.
Jace:
I’ll bring root beer.
She laughed. Actually laughed. Alone, in her room, like a lunatic. Then:
Lena:
You’re ridiculous.
Jace:
Yeah. But I made you smile.
She stopped breathing for a second.
Was this flirting?
Because if it was, it was working. Horribly. Wonderfully.
⸻
Later that night, as Lena tried to study, her phone buzzed again.
Jace:
So… tomorrow. My place?
Lena:
For the project?
Jace:
Sure. The project.
Unless you’re scared.
Lena:
I’m not scared of you.
Jace:
You should be.
She stared at the screen, heart thudding, then replied before she could stop herself:
Lena:
I’ll bring the sticky notes. Try not to get emotionally attached.
Jace:
Too late.
- Writer
