l A V (ᶜˡᵃᵍᵍᵒʳ'ˢ ᵍᵒᵒᵍˡᵉˢ)

(this is just a blurb from it)

You hated lab days.

Well...maybe hate was a strong word. It’s not like you loathed them, exactly. But you definitely didn’t like them. There were too many steps. Too much math. Too much standing around pretending you understood what stoichiometry was while silently wishing the Bunsen burner would swallow you whole.

So when your professor’s Sunday night email popped up: “Reminder: Chemistry Lab Tomorrow. Come prepared.” Y ou nearly dropped out of college on the spot.

And then, as if the universe hadn’t already declared war on you, you walked into the lab Monday morning and saw it.

The dreaded phrase, written in dry-erase marker across the board like a death sentence:

Lab Partners Today

Could your day get any worse?

Yes. Yes, it could. Because you were paired with him.

Claggor.

As in, that Claggor. Starting tight end, team golden boy, and all-around pain in your ass. The same guy who flirted with you freshman year at a party you barely remember, the same guy who spent every lecture scrolling on his phone and somehow always managed to look surprised when he asked you for the notes you knew damn well, he didn’t deserve.

Perfect.

You dropped your bag to the floor with a heavy thud and collapsed onto the painfully uncomfortable lab stool beside him.

“I hope you’re actually going to put effort in today,” you said flatly, not even bothering to look at him.

He didn’t answer at first. Just leaned against the lab bench like it was a locker room wall, phone still in hand. When he finally glanced up, that familiar smirk was already forming.

“Depends,” he said lazily. “You gonna do all the work for me?”

That stupid jock tone of his made you clench your jaw.

God, he was insufferable.

And worse? He knew it.

You ignored his smirk and pulled the lab manual toward you, flipping to the experiment of the day. Titration. Great. Acid, base, and a whole lot of numbers you didn’t want to deal with on a Monday morning.

You started reading the procedure, squinting at the tiny text. “We’re supposed to calculate the molarity based on how much base is needed to neutralize the acid. So we need the volume used—”

Claggor leaned in, way too close, pointing at a random paragraph with the tip of his pen. “Wait, wait. Is this the part where the chemicals explode if we mess up? Or is that just in the movies?”

You gave him a withering look. “This isn’t Fight Club , Claggor. It’s Chem 102.”

He grinned. “You say that like you’re not lowkey hoping for a little explosion. Spice things up.”

You turned back to the manual. “The only explosion that’s about to happen is my brain trying to remember how to do these calculations.”

“Aw,” he said, fake pouting. “Need help with the big bad numbers?”

“I need you to not talk for five minutes.”

He let out a low whistle. “Feisty. I like that.”

You didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, you started writing down the formula for molarity: M = mol / L . Simple enough. In theory.

Claggor tapped his pen against the table. “So... what’s a mole again? Like, the animal? Or...?”

You stopped mid-equation and stared at him.

He stared back.

“I’m joking. Kind of.”

You ran a hand down your face. “Why are you even in this class?”

He leaned in again, smile slow and smug. “Why do you think? Gotta stay eligible for the team. And maybe I wanted to see you again. You know, relive that magical freshman moment.”

You blinked. “The one where you spilled beer on me and asked if I ‘felt a connection’?”

“That’s the one,” he said proudly.

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your ancestors. “Focus. We need to find the number of moles of the base, and for that we need the molarity of the acid, and the volume added—”

But Claggor wasn’t listening. He was still watching you; head tilted like you were a puzzle he was just starting to enjoy solving.

“You get real intense when you’re concentrating,” he said, grinning. “It’s kinda cute.”

You slammed your pen down. “Do you want to pass this lab or not?”

He leaned back, hands up like you’d just pulled a weapon. “Hey, I’m helping! I’m the moral support. The vibes.”

“Your vibes are actively lowering my IQ.”

He chuckled, actually chuckled, like this was all some big joke to him. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You teach me this math stuff, and I’ll buy you coffee after. Or dinner. Your pick.”

You stared at him. “That’s not how lab partnerships work.”

“It could be.”

You gritted your teeth and shoved the notebook toward him. “Start by writing down the volume we used. Accurately. If you round wrong, I swear to God—”

He took the pen with a wink, like you’d just agreed to marry him. “You got it, partner .”

You were waiting for him to mess it up.

Really, you were ready for it. You had already rehearsed your eye roll, prepared a snarky comeback, even opened your calculator so you could redo everything yourself.

But then Claggor… actually picked up the pen.

And didn’t look confused.

“Huh,” he said, tapping his finger against the page. “So if the volume of the base we used was 0.025 liters, and the molarity of the acid is 0.1 M, then we can just plug that into the neutralization formula, right?”

You blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

He jotted something down, quick and neat, and your eyes widened. His handwriting was surprisingly legible. Neat, even. A little angled, like he was trying not to make it too obvious he cared.

“So,” he said, “if the balanced equation has a 1:1 ratio, then moles of acid equal moles of base. Multiply molarity by volume, that gives us... 2.5 millimoles.”

You stared at the notebook.

Then at him.

Then at the notebook again.

“…Did you just do that in your head?”

Claggor looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah? I mean, it’s not that hard.”

You frowned. “But you said… You act like you don’t even know what a mole is.”

He grinned. “Yeah, because it’s funny watching you get all worked up.”

You gaped at him, full-on speechless. “You’ve been pretending to be bad at this?”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Not pretending. Just… choosing not to try. There’s a difference.”

You leaned back in your stool, trying to process what the hell just happened. Claggor. Claggor. The guy who once asked if the syllabus was “just a suggestion,” had just casually solved the hardest part of the lab without breaking a sweat.

“What are you even doing in football?” you muttered.

He shot you a lopsided grin. “What, you don’t think athletes can do math?”

“I think you were trying really hard to convince me you couldn’t.”

He looked down, a little more sheepish this time. “Yeah, well… people don’t usually expect me to be good at this stuff. It’s easier to just play the dumb jock card.”

You studied him, genuinely seeing him for the first time, actually seeing him. And yeah, he was still smug and obnoxious and had no business being that attractive, but there was something else under all that bravado. Something… sharp.

Smart.

You sat up straighter and crossed your arms. “Okay then, genius. Finish the calculations. I want a break.”

He gave you a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then, without hesitation, he got to work. Unit conversions, sig figs, the whole thing.

You didn’t know what was more alarming: that Claggor was solving stoichiometry like it was Sudoku… or that watching him do it was, somehow, infuriatingly hot.

You weren’t sure what kind of rom-com hell you’d just stumbled into, but one thing was painfully clear.