They hated each other.
At least, that’s what everyone on the debate team thought. Harper and Jace — fire and ice, sharp tongues, eye rolls across the table, constant bickering. But no one ever saw the way their eyes lingered too long after every argument, or how their fights got a little too personal, too close.
It was after a late-night practice round — just the two of them, left in the empty classroom. Rain tapping at the windows, thunder rumbling low like a warning.
“You always have to win, don’t you?” Harper snapped, arms crossed tight, chest rising with frustration.
Jace stepped closer, his smirk infuriating. “Only because you make it fun.”
She shoved him, hard enough to make a point, not hard enough to mean it. He caught her wrists, spun her against the desk, eyes burning into hers.
"You done pretending?"
Their mouths crashed together like it was the only way to shut each other up. Teeth clashed, hands grabbed, breath caught. He lifted her onto the desk, papers scattering like confetti. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him in.
There was no romance in it — just raw, filthy need. Her nails raked down his back as he drove into her, fast and deep, her moans swallowed by his mouth. Every thrust was a challenge, every gasp a surrender.
They came undone together, tension snapping like a stretched wire, bodies trembling with the weight of everything they’d never said out loud.
After, she laid back, catching her breath, eyes half-lidded.
“We’re not telling anyone,” she muttered.
He grinned. “Tell them what?”
She rolled her eyes — but didn’t move away.