Slow It Down

Part 7 •REWRITTEN•

I clear my throat. "Fine," I say shortly, turning back to my desk and my eyes glue back onto my screen filled with several tabs open of different ideas. None I bother sharing with Jackson.

I don't expect him to say anything else. Instead, I expect him to let it drop. I want him to let it drop.

But then, after a pause—

"Lilah, can we talk—"

"Jackson, please don't go there," I murmur, gripping the edges of my desk to steady myself. My eyes instinctively close as I try to steady the rollercoaster of emotions flowing through me. "All I want to do is get through this class, finish this project, and move on with my life."

The words come out harsher than I intend, but I don't care.

A long moment of silence stretches between us again. I don't look over at him, but I brace myself for a sharp remark, for some sarcastic response, for anything that proves he still doesn't care. But he doesn't say anything. Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose, tapping his fingers against the desk in an almost restless motion.

Although he remains quiet, I can feel the agitation coming from him and it's rubbing off on me. I feel my chest fill with anger.

"In fact," I say before I can stop myself, twisting slightly in my seat to finally face him, "I will gladly do the project on my own. You can take half the credit. If that means I don't have to speak to you, to even think about you being my partner, then I'll do a hundred percent of the work."

His eyebrows raise slightly. For a second, he looks genuinely amused, like he wasn't expecting me to say that.

Then, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips again, full of arrogance. "So you do think about me, huh?" He drawls as he rests his cheek on his hand.

My jaw clenches.

I whip my head forward, refusing to look at him, refusing to let him see the way my face heats from how easily he gets under my skin. Something about him just makes me want to—

"Why are you so egotistical?" I mutter sharply under my breath as I type another idea down—some kind of invention that mutes voices of your choosing. "You have enough confidence—or cockiness—to share with the whole room."

Jackson lets out a low chuckle full of humor, and I already know where's he's going to take this conversation. "Oh, trust me, I've got enough cock—"

"Not what I meant," I snap, my face instantly heating up.

To my horror, he actually laughs, and it's the most natural, unguarded sound I've heard from him in years. I glare at him, fighting the urge to roll my eyes instead, and cross my arms. "You're unbearable."

"Yeah, I've been told."

The bell rings, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark I was about to make. I bolt out of my seat, gathering my things quickly. The more distance I gain from my seat, the more relief I feel not being close to Jackson anymore. But before I can fully escape the building, a light tug of my backpack slows me down, pulling me backwards before the devil himself moves in front of me, stopping me in the hall. I arch a brow in demand to know why he's still bothering me.

"I need your number," he says bluntly.

I blink up at him, stunned. He truly is the most ignorant person I've met, thinking I'll give him my number years after he ghosted our friendship.

"Absolutely not." I retaliate, crossing my arms.

He rolls his eyes, an unamused expression on his face. "Not for that reason. For the project."