The autumn air bit sharply at Eva Morales' cheeks as she sprinted across Redfield University's cobblestone quad, her threadbare backpack slamming against her shoulder. Golden leaves crunched under her scuffed boots, and the clocktower's toll echoed like a death knell - 8:58 AM. Two minutes until Professor Hartman's ethics lecture, and tardiness meant docking points. Points she couldn't afford to lose. Not when her scholarship hung by a thread.

She tightened her grip on her to-go cup of dining-hall coffee (bitter, lukewarm, but blessedly free) and rounded the corner of the Humanities Building -

- only to collide with something hard, warm, and infuriatingly fragrant.

Hot liquid exploded across her chest. A yelp tore from her throat as she stumbled back, her white blouse now streaked brown. Across from her, a guy in a tailored charcoal sweater cursed, shaking espresso off his hands. A silver thermos lay capsized at his feet, pooling into the grille of a sleek black BMW parked haphazardly on the walkway.

"Are you blind?" he snapped, ice-blue eyes flashing.

Eva's jaw clenched. Of course. Nicholas Davenport, The name had haunted orientation week - scion of the Davenport Pharmaceuticals empire, heir to a fortune built on overpriced allergy meds, and Redfield's resident campus deity. His Instagram (which she'd accidentally clicked on once) was a curated hellscape of yacht parties and smirking selfies.

"You're the one who parked on a sidewalk!" She swiped at her ruined blouse, the coffee seeping into her bra. "This is a *pedestrian* zone!"

Nick's laugh was a low, mocking thing. "Tell that to the admissions office. They'll rename the whole damn path if I donate another library." He stepped closer, his cologne (sandalwood and entitlement) clashing with the acrid coffee stench. "Now, are you gonna pay for the detailing?"

"Pay?" Eva's voice climbed. "You just scalded half my skin off!"

"Scalded? Please. It's a triple-shot latte. Barely lukewarm by now." His gaze flicked over her - the thrift-store blazer, the secondhand textbooks spilling from her bag - and his smirk deepened. "Relax, Scholarship. I'll Venmo you for the dry cleaning. What's your rate? Twenty bucks? Thirty?"

Heat flooded her face. She'd seen that look before, in the dining hall whispers and the turned shoulders of her Wealth & Power seminar. *Outsider*. *Charity case*.

"Keep your money," she hissed, snatching her fallen notebook. A page fluttered loose, landing in the espresso puddle. "And learn to park your ego *off-campus*."

She turned on her heel, but his voice hooked her back.

"Careful, Morales." He'd plucked the sodden page - her meticulously highlighted reading notes - and held it up like a soiled tissue. "Wouldn't want your GPA to drip away with this."

*He knew her name.*

Before she could retort, the clocktrike boomed. *Nine AM*.

They glared at each other, twin statues of spite, until a passing freshman's snicker shattered the moment. Eva spun away, coffee squelching in her shoes.

"This isn't over!" Nick called after her.

She didn't look back.

---

Nick's POV

The ethics lecture hall reeked of old paper and judgment. Nick slouched in the back row, thumbing a text from his father (*Stop screwing around. Internship offer expires Friday.*), when the door banged open.

There she was.

Morales stormed down the aisle, her coffee-stained blouse half-tucked, dark curls escaping their bun. She'd swapped the ruined notebook for a legal pad, her underlip caught stubbornly between her teeth. He'd seen that look on litigators, on startup founders, on his mother during shareholder meetings.

Hungry. All the damn time.

She slid into a front-row seat, back rod-straight. Professor Hartman arched a brow. "Late *and* underdressed, Ms. Morales? I expect better from our Dean's Scholar."

A titter rippled through the trust-fund brigade. Nick watched her shoulders stiffen.

"My apologies, Professor." Her voice was steel wrapped in silk. "I was? delayed by a *parking hazard*."

Hartman hmphed. "See that it doesn't recur. Now - " He gestured to the chalkboard. "Pair up. Debate drafts are due next week. And remember - " His dentures gleamed. "*Ad hominem* attacks will cost you points."

Nick barely heard the groan of rearranging backpacks. His phone buzzed - a Snapchat from last night's fling - but his eyes stayed glued to the front row.

Where Morales was now staring at the TA's clipboard, her face draining of color.

"Problem, Ms. Morales?" Hartman asked.

She stood slowly, a slip of paper trembling in her hand. "There's? a mistake."

"No mistakes. Partners are randomized."

"But - " Her throat bobbed. "Nicholas Davenport and I? we can't possibly - "

Nick's stomach dropped. He lunged for the TA's desk, snatching his assignment slip.

EVA MORALES

The letters screamed up at him.

Hartman's smile was all veneers and venom. "Ah, yes. A pedagogical experiment. Opposites? *clashing*."

Across the room, Morales met his gaze. Her eyes were wildfire.

Nick grinned.

Game on, Scholarship.

debates, and a bet that could destroy them both.