The psychology lecture hall was no exception.

If anything, it was worse.

Rows of students hunched over laptops, some scribbling frantically, others staring blankly at the projector screen as Professor Aldridge adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat with the kind of authority that made the room fall silent.

“Before we begin,” he announced, “I have an important announcement regarding your semester grade.”

A collective groan rippled through the room. Whispers broke out. Someone in the back muttered, “Already?”

Aldridge ignored them. He clicked a button, and the projector hummed to life, displaying a slide that read: RESEARCH PROJECT — PARTNERS ASSIGNED.

“This project counts for forty percent of your final grade,” he continued. “You will work in pairs for the remainder of the semester, conducting original research and presenting your findings at the end of the term. Partners have already been assigned—randomly, I assure you—and they are non-negotiable.”

The room erupted in murmurs. Some students exchanged hopeful glances. Others looked like they were already drafting emails begging for a change.

“Your assignments are now being displayed.”

Names appeared on the screen one by one, scrolling slowly as students leaned forward, scanning for their own.

And then—there it was.

Y/N’s name.

Beside it, in bold letters: Carter Hayes.

A ripple of snickers spread through the room. Heads turned. A few knowing looks were exchanged. Someone in the second row whispered something to their neighbor, who responded with a low whistle.

Carter Hayes. Briar’s golden boy. Hockey captain. Campus legend.

Of course.

Before anyone could process the assignment, the door swung open.

Carter Hayes strolled in like he owned the place—which, to be fair, most students believed he did. His dark hair was still damp from practice, his hoodie pushed up to his elbows, hockey bag slung over one shoulder, a crooked grin already forming when he spotted the professor’s stare.

“Morning, everyone,” he announced cheerfully, grinning at the class.

A few girls waved. Someone in the front row gave him a fist bump.

Aldridge sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wonderful timing, as always, Hayes. Since you finally decided to join us—and I use that term loosely—you can meet the partner you’ll be working with for the rest of the semester.”

Carter’s grin didn’t fade, but his eyes flickered toward the projector, scanning the screen with practiced ease. His gaze landed on the name beside his.

His expression changed.

Not much. A flicker. The slight tightening of his jaw.

But it was there.

The professor gestured toward the only empty seat left in the room—directly beside his new partner.

“Please,” Aldridge said dryly, “do make yourselves comfortable. I expect both of you to exchange contact information before you leave today.”

More laughter.

Carter’s grin returned, but it was different this time—less cocky, more measured. He crossed the room with easy strides, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence, and slid into the seat beside Y/N without a word.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to tap against the window glass, turning the morning dim and gray. Inside, the room buzzed with conversation as other students turned to their partners, already planning, already strategizing.

But between Y/N and Carter, the silence was thick.

He didn’t look over.

Instead, he dropped his bag on the floor, leaned back in his chair, and let out a soft exhale, glancing sideways at Y/N with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So,” he murmured, just loud enough for only the two of them to hear. “Guess we’re stuck together.”