Lines in the Sand

Aiden checked the time again.

4:03 p.m.

The library’s upper study room was quiet — too quiet. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, pooling on the wooden table where he sat, arms folded, one leg bouncing impatiently.

She was late.

Not by much. But enough to irritate him.

He’d spent the morning researching their assigned project — Socioeconomic Policy and Emerging Technologies — and the last fifteen minutes wondering if she’d ghost him out of spite.

At exactly 4:06, the door creaked open.

Eliza Wren walked in like it was her personal boardroom. Sleek black coat, red notebook, not a single hair out of place. She didn’t apologize. Just sat down across from him, flipping open her notes without a word.

“You’re late,” Aiden said.

“I’m punctual. The library clock is slow,” she replied smoothly, not looking up.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course it is.”

They sat in silence for a beat — the kind that bristled with unsaid things.

Aiden leaned forward. “So, our topic. We could split it down the middle — policy versus tech. I take one side, you take the other.”

“That’s lazy,” Eliza said, still writing. “It won’t impress the board. They’ll expect integration. Dialogue. Original thought.”

“Fine,” Aiden said. “Let’s do it your way.”

She looked up, surprised.

“What?”

“I’m saying go ahead. Take the lead,” he said. “You’ve clearly rehearsed this entire conversation already.”

Eliza blinked. “I’m not here to lead you, Hart. I’m here to win.”

Aiden smirked. “Exactly. And if we tank this project, we both go down.”

Eliza’s jaw tightened, just barely.

“Then let’s agree to one thing,” she said. “No sabotage. No distractions. Just results.”

Aiden’s expression shifted. “You think I’m here to sabotage you?”

“I think you’re impulsive. You wing things. That’s risky,” she replied.

He sat back, arms folding again. “You don’t know me.”

“I’ve read your essays. I know enough.”

“Well, I’ve met you,” Aiden said. “And I can already tell you care more about being right than being good.”

A flicker of something passed across her face — anger? Amusement? He couldn’t tell.

“And you,” she said coldly, “hide behind charm so no one notices how reckless you are.”

Their gazes locked. The air between them sharpened.

Then Eliza broke the silence, flipping another page. “We need a thesis by Friday. I’ll send you a draft by tonight.”

Aiden sighed. “Sure. Let me know what time your clock says.”

She didn’t answer. Just wrote something — then pushed a sticky note across the table toward him. A meeting schedule. Color-coded, of course.

He took it without comment.

They worked for another hour in tense, efficient silence.

When she finally stood to leave, Aiden said, “You know this isn’t going to stay civil for long.”

Eliza glanced back at him. “I’m counting on it.”

And then she was gone, heels echoing down the stone hallway, leaving Aiden with nothing but his notes, his frustration, and the lingering sense that this project was about to set both of them on fire.

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