Untouchable

0.8

(Ivy’s POV)

The air in the classroom was thick with the quiet hum of conversations, the occasional rustle of papers, and the faint scratching of pens against notebooks. Students were settling in, leaning toward their seatmates, whispering about last night’s homework or whatever gossip was circulating today.

I set my books down, keeping my movements controlled, careful. I wasn’t about to give him any reason to comment.

But Adrian Rhys Blackwood always found a reason.

A soft scoff came from beside me.

I ignored it.

The pages of my notebook fluttered as I flipped through them, pretending I was looking for something important.

"You always this bad at pretending?" Adrian’s voice was quiet but sharp, like he knew exactly how to get under my skin.

I didn’t look at him. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

He leaned back, his chair creaking slightly. "Sure you don’t."

The amusement in his voice made my grip on my pen tighten.

I turned slightly, just enough to glare at him. "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"

His lips twitched, barely a smirk. "Not when I have such an easy audience."

I opened my mouth to respond, but Mr. Calloway’s voice cut through the background noise. "Pair up with your seatmate for today’s assignment."

My stomach dropped.

Adrian exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Looks like we’re stuck together. Again."

I let out a slow breath, gathering what little patience I had left. "Let's just get this over with."

Mr. Calloway started passing out the assignment sheets, and I caught a glimpse of the topic—analyzing themes in a classic novel we’d been reading. Simple enough.

I reached for the paper at the same time Adrian did, our fingers brushing for half a second before I pulled away like I’d touched fire.

If he noticed, he didn’t comment. Instead, he glanced at the sheet, skimming over the instructions. "You’re good at this stuff," he said. "You do the writing, I’ll give input."

I let out a short laugh. "Absolutely not. You’re doing your part."

Adrian lifted a brow. "I just said I’d give input."

"Yeah, no. We’re actually working on this together." I tapped my pen against the desk, narrowing my eyes at him. "I’m not carrying you through this assignment."

He sighed, tilting his head slightly, as if debating whether it was worth arguing. Then, to my surprise, he shrugged. "Fine. Let’s start with the first question."

I blinked, caught off guard by how easily he gave in.

"Don’t look so surprised," he muttered, scanning the page. "I can be reasonable."

"Could’ve fooled me," I mumbled.

Adrian smirked but didn’t take the bait. "First question. ‘How does the protagonist’s internal conflict drive the narrative?’" He turned to me. "Go on, prodigy. Enlighten me."

I rolled my eyes but answered anyway. "The protagonist’s internal conflict—his struggle between duty and desire—is what fuels most of his actions. Every choice he makes is influenced by that tension."

Adrian rested his chin on his hand, studying me. "Huh."

I frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, still watching me. "Just interesting how you phrased that."

I hesitated. "How?"

His gaze flicked toward the paper, then back to me. "You make it sound personal."

I scoffed. "It’s called analyzing literature, Blackwood. Maybe try it sometime."

"Mm." He leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "Or maybe you just relate to it."

The air between us felt different then—heavier, charged with something I couldn’t quite name.

I refused to react.

Instead, I turned back to the paper. "Your turn. Give me an answer."

Adrian exhaled through his nose, but after a beat of silence, he spoke. "The conflict isn’t just internal. It’s shaped by the people around him. His choices aren’t just his—they’re influenced by the people he lets in."

Something about the way he said it made me pause.

I studied him for a second, but his face gave nothing away.

"Huh," I said, mimicking his earlier tone.

His lips twitched. "What?"

"Nothing," I said, turning back to the paper. "Just interesting how you phrased that."

A quiet laugh. "Touché, Collins."

We fell into a rhythm after that—still sharp, still competitive, but actually working. The conversations around us faded into background noise, and for once, we weren’t arguing just to argue.

It was unsettling.

Because if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think we were starting to understand each other.