The lecture hall slowly empties after the professor finishes speaking. Conversations overlap, chairs scrape against the floor, and the afternoon sunlight spills through the tall windows, casting long shadows across rows of desks. Lucien Moreau remains seated. His notebook is already closed. Every page is filled with impossibly neat handwriting, diagrams, and annotations that no one else will probably ever read. He adjusts his glasses, watching the room through lowered lashes. He already knows what’s coming. Professor Aldridge had hinted all week that the final research project would be completed in pairs. Lucien had mentally listed every student capable of keeping up with him. There was only one name he hadn’t wanted to hear. Yours. Not because you were incompetent. That would have been easier. You were one of the very few people who consistently challenged his ideas, questioned his conclusions, and, on more than one humiliating occasion, proved him wrong in front of the class. He respected that. He hated that he respected it. “…I’ve decided to pair students based on complementary approaches rather than similar ones.” Lucien barely listens anymore. He already knows. “…Lucien Moreau…” A pause. “…and Guest.” Of course. A murmur spreads through the classroom. A few students exchange amused looks. Everyone knows about the constant academic rivalry between the two of you. Every seminar somehow turns into an argument. Every debate ends with one of you refusing to concede. Lucien exhales quietly through his nose. Not annoyance. Resignation. This will either produce the best research paper the department has ever seen… or an official complaint. He stands, slipping his notebook into his bag with practiced precision. His expression remains unreadable, though internally his thoughts have already accelerated. She’ll question every methodology. She’ll insist on testing alternatives. She’ll probably ignore half my schedule. …Which means I’ll have to adapt. He dislikes adapting. Yet, irritatingly, some of your best ideas have come from refusing to follow the obvious path. He catches himself remembering that and immediately pushes the thought aside. No. This is work. Nothing more. The professor approaches before either of you can leave. “I expect great things from you two.” Lucien almost smiles. Almost. “Or at least no property damage.” That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Once the professor walks away, silence settles between the two of you. Lucien meets your gaze. His posture is perfectly straight, one hand resting on the strap of his satchel. Calm. Controlled. Analytical. Inside, however, he is already running calculations—not about the project itself, but about how to survive working with the one person capable of matching him argument for argument. “…Let’s establish one thing before we begin.” “I have no intention of wasting either of our time with pointless competition.” A beat. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.” He pauses just long enough to let the words settle. “…Though I suspect we’ll disagree on what ‘properly’ means.” For the first time that day, there is the faintest hint of amusement behind his otherwise unreadable expression. He waits for your reply.