The chemistry lecture hall smelled a bit like bleach, office papers, and utter boredom.

It seemed like something pretty common for kids in a school like this.

Marcus Monroe stood at the front of the room, trying to look at least professional, and definitely not nervous.

His current behavior was ridiculous.

He'd done way harder things.

He'd single-handedly defended a doctoral thesis in front of over ten professors who were dead set on being assholes and dismantling his research molecule by molecule.

He had survived eighty-hour lab weeks, caffeine poisoning (he didn't even know it existed until he got it himself), academic humiliation (back in the day, humiliation became his name), and one truly catastrophic fire alarm incident during graduate school.

But thirty undergraduates staring at him felt much worse than anything he'd ever experienced.

Maybe because this mattered more.

Hartwell University was the kind of place people killed themselves trying to get into.

Ivy-covered buildings, over a billion dollars in donations, and students with trust funds holding more money than entire economies.

The chemistry department alone had enough prestige to ruin careers before they even started.

Yep. This was the place that ruined people.

And Marcus, at twenty-eight, the one-in-a-thousand chance, was probably the youngest teacher they'd hired in years.

In fact, there was no doubt about it.

He could already feel them judging him.

Too young.

Too inexperienced.

Too soft-looking to command a room.

That's why he wanted to prove them fucking wrong.

People at this school judged books by their covers.

If you don't look rich and act like an asshole, you're not good enough.

You don't kiss ass? You're not good enough either.

Marcus adjusted the cuff of his charcoal button-up and turned toward the whiteboard before his irritation could show.

"Organic chemistry," he began evenly, writing his name across the board in precise cursive, "is less about memorization and more about pattern recognition. If you try to survive this course by brute force alone, you will fail."

An awkward silence passed through the room.

A few students typed immediately, while others stared blankly.

The butterflies certainly weren't going to give them the answers on a test.

Marcus quickly assessed the room.

Front row. Definitely the overachievers.

People with actual brain cells. Probably here on scholarships.

Back row?

Trust-fund assholes.

Plenty of daddy's money. Not many surviving brain cells.

Marcus could tell from the bored looks on their faces that the school was split into two groups. No in-betweens. No nothing.

You're either an asshole or a goody two-shoes.

Marcus had expected that.

At least, that was what he thought anyway.

Because his classroom door slammed open twenty minutes late.

Every head turned, their interest piqued.

Marcus looked up from the board. He had expected faculty, the janitor, or maybe even the principal. Not this.

He paused.

The man—not the student—walking into that room sure as hell looked like trouble. Like ninety percent trouble, and the rest was technically considered a student.

Three things stood out immediately.

He was tall—at least 6'2. Fuck, he was probably even taller than Marcus himself.

He was strong—really strong. Marcus could make out his broad shoulders beneath the fancy black coat he was wearing.

He had dark blond hair falling messily over sharp green eyes that scanned the room with complete disinterest.

He looked like one of those troublemakers who had no business being that attractive.

The stranger didn't even apologize. In fact, he didn't even look embarrassed.

Instead, he strolled down the steps like he owned the university. Considering the clothes he was wearing, they were probably worth over a thousand dollars. So maybe there was a chance he actually did.

Whispers started almost immediately around the room, and Marcus himself managed to catch pieces of it.

"Cross—"

"Holy fuck—"

"Damn... he actually showed up?"

Ah.

Marcus supposed he was right once again.

It was one of those students.

The blond man finally glanced toward Marcus, and for the first time since entering the room, his expression sharpened with actual interest.

Marcus immediately disliked how much space the man seemed to occupy simply by existing.

He kept his face neutral, though his stomach felt slightly tight under the student's scrutiny.

"Can I help you?" he asked calmly.

The room went completely quiet. It appeared some students were hoping for entertainment.

The blond smirked slightly.

"Depends. Are you always this welcoming?"

A few students laughed nervously. Marcus, of course, didn't.

Do not engage with this student, his mind screamed.

"You're late."

"Wonderful observation skills. Impressive."

More laughter erupted around the classroom.

Marcus already knew the type.

Rich.

Arrogant asshole.

Basically, asshole summed up just about everything in his personality.

Judging from his tone, he was probably used to professors tolerating him because his last name appeared somewhere on the campus wall of founding founders.

Marcus turned back toward the board.

"If you're incapable of arriving on time, Mr...?"

"Cross."

Of course. He looked and acted like a Cross.

"Mr. Cross," Marcus repeated smoothly, "then I'd recommend finding a seat and remaining quiet. Perhaps you'll find it in your agenda to learn something."

That got a reaction out of him—a real one, for once.

The smirk on his face shifted. It didn't disappear, but it changed shape.

Sharper. More interested.

Like Damian had finally found Marcus entertaining.

Marcus didn't seem too happy about that.

He wasn't here for anyone's entertainment.

Nor was he ever going to be.

Meanwhile, Damian dropped into a seat in the middle row dramatically and stretched his long legs out carelessly.

Marcus dismissed his existence.

Why should he have any reason to pay attention to a stuck-up, arrogant guy like him?

Either way, he tried to ignore him.

"Carbon bonding," Marcus continued carefully while writing another equation across the board, "functions because of electron sharing. Stability in chemistry depends entirely on balance."

His voice returned to its steady rhythm.

This part he completely understood.

Something he was actually compelled to teach—and enjoyed.

Chemistry made sense to his brain. It felt stable, controlled—the complete opposite of the man he could practically feel staring a hole into the back of his neck.

Chemistry made sense, but people really didn't.

Marcus continued through the lecture confidently. Molecular structures were difficult, but the students—at least the ones in the front—were scribbling notes.

It felt like forever, but it had only been fifteen minutes before Damian decided to open that damned mouth of his.

Marcus had almost forgotten about him.

"So basically," Damian interrupted lazily, "everything you're saying only applies under ideal conditions."

Marcus stopped mid-step. The hand holding the marker stilled, and he turned slowly to face the owner of the question.

Damian leaned back casually in his chair, one arm draped over the side like this was a café or, better yet, his couch.

His green eyes landed directly on Marcus.

That was all it took.

Challenge accepted.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Marcus carefully set down his marker.

"That's generally how introductory lectures work."

A ripple of laughter echoed throughout the room.

There was a ghost of a smile on Damian's face.

"Don't you think it's rather rare for ideal conditions to occur, though?"

"Neither does your attendance record, apparently, and yet here we are."

The class laughed louder this time.

Damian's eyes narrowed slightly, as if assessing the situation he'd so stupidly walked into.

Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Marcus continued before the interruption could break his momentum.

"In controlled environments—"

"But chemistry isn't controlled," Damian cut in again. "Reactions become unstable constantly. Temperatures change, which is basically the reason we have global warming. Pressure changes. Not everyone can breathe properly on top of Mount Everest. So isn't calling anything stable technically inaccurate?"

That was different. No—scratch that. That was significantly different.

Marcus studied him properly for the first time.

He was engaging with the lecture like he'd done this a thousand times before.

He wasn't even showing off.

That was a real question.

A very intelligent one too.

Honestly, too smart for the careless persona Damian was wearing.

Marcus crossed his arms slowly, staring at the blond.

"What year are you?"

There was a tense pause.

"Senior."

"And yet you're sitting in an advanced course asking first-year thermodynamic questions like a lost puppy."

A few students winced at that.

Damian's jaw tightened slightly.

Marcus stepped down from the platform, his voice still carrying academic detachment.

"You're correct that perfect stability doesn't exist. Congratulations. You've discovered the foundation of chemical equilibrium."

More laughter erupted through the class.

Damian didn't laugh this time. Marcus, on the other hand, was relentless.

"The point of this lecture, Mr. Cross, is understanding controlled reactions well enough to predict instability before it happens. If you'd attended the previous twenty minutes instead of making an entrance, you might've realized that."

The silence was tight enough to cut with a butter knife.

Marcus held Damian's gaze evenly. For one strange second, something electric passed between them like wildfire.

Recognition.

Damian straightened in his seat, attention fully locked onto Marcus.

Marcus should've ended it there. He'd already pushed it far enough.

Instead, he added carefully, "If you're going to challenge me in my classroom, at least try not to do it with concepts I already covered before you arrived."

Damian stared at him for one long second.

Then he laughed.

It was deep, charming—something Marcus refused to acknowledge.

The blond leaned back in his chair, eyes still locked on the professor.

"Noted, Dr. Monroe."

Marcus's suspicion rose instantly, though he gave no reaction.

Something about the way he said it made something uncomfortable crawl beneath his skin.

His composure slipped for half a second. He turned back toward the board before it could show.

But even then, he could still feel Damian Cross watching him.

And from what he could tell... the blond looked fascinated.