Bets, Beds and Treads || 18+

𝒙𝒙𝒗𝒊𝒊.

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ xxᴠɪɪ
| ʙ ɪ ᴛ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ s ᴡ ᴇ ᴇ ᴛ |
𝐑 𝐄 𝐈 𝐍 𝐀

𝗥𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗡 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗜 were at it again, competing while we waited for his parents to leave. Apparently, we were just that much of nerds and I was determined to get him to agree to be my partner for the school magazine, and I thought I had it in the bag-except he was kicking my ass at this.

"It's 1984," he said, leaning back in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in that smug way of his. "How did you not get that? Orwell basically screamed it through every chapter."

I rolled my eyes, flipping through the pages of the book in my hand. "I was testing you, Augustus. Congratulations, you can spot the most obvious dystopian masterpiece in literary history. Gold star."

He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Testing me? You didn't even know the protagonist's name until I pointed it out."

"Winston Smith is painfully dull. Who cares about his name when the world-building steals the show?" I countered, tossing the book onto the table between us with a smirk.

Reign raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "You're deflecting because you know I'm right."

I leaned forward, propping my chin on my hand. "And you're obsessed with winning every argument, even when it's over something as subjective as literary opinions. Chill, professor."

His eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement there. "Fine. What's your pick for a literary masterpiece, then? Enlighten me."

Without hesitation, I grabbed another book from the stack we'd pulled out earlier. "The Catcher in the Rye. Salinger nailed the whole disillusioned-teenager thing. Iconic."

Reign let out a short scoff, shaking his head. "Of course. Because nothing screams 'depth' like a whiny sixteen-year-old hating the world."

I pointed at him, grinning. "Exactly why it's brilliant. Relatable and raw. Unlike 1984, where everyone's just... miserable. No hope, no rebellion worth rooting for."

He leaned forward this time, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Hope isn't the point of 1984. It's a cautionary tale. If you need a feel-good story, go read YA romance."

I gasped, mock-offended. "You did not just throw shade at an entire genre! Don't you dare act like you're too cool for it. You literally have the The Hunger Games in your shelf!"

His expression was deadpan, but I caught the slight twitch of his lips. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You big fat liar!" I teased, sitting back with a triumphant grin. "You aren't fooling anyone. I know you liked it. Bet you even rooted for Peeta."

Reign groaned, rubbing his temples. "Why am I even entertaining this conversation?"

"Because you secretly enjoy it," I shot back, reaching for another book. "Now, if we're done pretending The Hunger Games didn't emotionally wreck you, how about a speed round? First to name five authors from the Modernist era wins."

Reign leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes locking on mine with that intense focus he always seemed to summon when a challenge was at stake.

"Virginia Woolf," he said, wasting no time.

I wasn't about to lose, though. "James Joyce," I countered immediately, crossing my arms.

"Ezra Pound," he shot back without missing a beat, like this was some high-stakes competition. Knowing him, it probably was.

"T.S. Eliot," I said, matching his pace, my lips twitching in amusement.