Chemistry was supposed to be predictable. Balanced. Measurable.
Alex liked that.
There was comfort in moles and molecules, in the logic of valence electrons and reaction rates. Nothing messy. Nothing unpredictable.
So when she walked into Mr. Cooper's lab that morning, she expected a quiet, productive double period of hands-on chemical experiments. Her goggles were in her bag. Her lab notebook had a fresh page already labeled and dated. Her day? Perfectly planned.
Until he walked in.
"Mr. Allister," Mr. Cooper said from the front of the room as the classroom door swung open, "there's no test today. Your presence isn't required."
Alex's head snapped toward the entrance just in time to see Jasper Allister step in like he owned the place—or at least didn't care who did.
Black, unruly hair. That signature half-lazy smile. Notebook under one arm. Slightly rumpled uniform shirt, sleeves rolled up like he'd walked out of a novel instead of AP Chemistry. He looked exactly the same as he did in AP English: like brilliance trying very hard to look like boredom.
Jasper grinned as if the teacher had just greeted him with a compliment. "I know, sir. But there's too much sun under my tree. Figured I'd come indoors and bask in fluorescent lighting instead."
Several students chuckled.
Alex did not.
She blinked. Once. Then again.
Nope. Still there.
Since when did he have chemistry?
"Since you've decided to grace us with your presence," Mr. Cooper said dryly, flipping through his attendance sheet, "you can sit next to Miss Dunphy. Mr. Patel is absent today."
Alex's eyes widened in silent protest.
You've got to be kidding me.
"Perfect," Jasper said, already sauntering toward her table. "Just my luck. The honor student herself."
He dropped into the seat beside her with the ease of someone entirely unbothered by the concept of personal space.
"You don't even go here," Alex muttered under her breath.
"Sure I do," he replied, flashing a grin. "I just orbit differently."
She crossed her arms. "That doesn't even make sense."
"You'd be surprised how many things that applies to."
Mr. Cooper tapped the board with his marker. "Today's a practical session on reaction rates. You'll work in pairs. Mix carefully. Record all observations. Try not to destroy the lab."
He began handing out instructions while students grabbed beakers and Bunsen burners.
Alex reached for the materials. Jasper did not.
"You planning to help or just vibe ominously?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
He smirked. "That depends. Are you going to stab me with that thermometer?"
"No promises."
He picked up a pair of goggles and slipped them on. "Then let's make some science, Dunphy."
As she measured the first set of chemicals, he leaned in and said casually, "You know what I like about chemistry?"
"That it lets you skip class 90% of the time?"
"No," he said, watching her pour. "It's that even when things look perfectly stable, the right spark can trigger an explosion. Reactions are just... waiting to happen."
Alex tried not to be impressed. Again. And again, failed.
They began the experiment, beakers clinking, mixtures fizzing faintly as the solutions reacted.
"You know," Jasper said suddenly, swirling the mixture with one hand, "you and I? We've got pretty explosive chemistry."
Alex looked up slowly, unimpressed. "Seriously?"
"What?" he said with mock innocence. "Too soon?"
"That wasn't even clever."
"Harsh, Miss Dunphy." He leaned in conspiratorially. "But you still blushed. That's a reaction too, isn't it?"
"I did not blush."
"Oh, definitely a reaction. Maybe not exothermic, but definitely visible."
She scowled and focused back on the experiment, trying to ignore the annoying smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was enjoying this. Of course he was.
The reaction bubbled, shifted color—deep green to a misty blue. She noted it with precision in her lab notebook. Jasper glanced over her shoulder.
"Nice handwriting," he commented, then added with a cocky little grin, "You're kinda cute when you're irritated."
She turned to him, utterly deadpan. "Are you flirting with me?"
"I'm appreciating the aesthetics of the moment," he said, adjusting his goggles. "Purely scientific."
She gave him a long, flat look. "You're exhausting."
"Balance, Dunphy," he said, pointing between them. "I exhaust, you control. It's almost poetic."
As much as she hated to admit it, he was... oddly competent in the lab. His hands were steady, his measurements precise. He even corrected her calculation once—not arrogantly, but gently, with a quiet "Check that decimal."
And he was right.
Ugh.
Mr. Cooper strolled past, checking their data sheet. He gave a slight nod of approval.
"Well. Perhaps you should come to class more often, Allister."
Jasper tapped his pen to his temple. "Genius needs rest, sir."
Alex rolled her eyes again, but didn't comment. They continued the work, and as the reactions grew more complex, so did the conversation.
"Well," Jasper mused as one solution turned a brilliant violet, "if this doesn't convince you we're a power pair, I don't know what will."
"I'd rather pair with a sulfur spill."
"Ouch," he said, mock wounded. "Sharp tongue. But even sulfur can make fireworks."
The bell rang, finally, and students began packing up. Jasper took his time, as if the end of class was merely a suggestion.
As she wiped down the table, he looked at her again—not teasing this time, just observing.
"You're not like most people here," he said quietly.
She blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You think faster. Judge quicker. Like you're always running two seconds ahead."
Alex hesitated.
"That's not... untrue," she admitted cautiously.
He nodded. "Me too."
Then he slung his bag over his shoulder and started toward the door.
"See you in English," he said over his shoulder. "Try not to miss me too much."
She stared after him, frowning. He was confusing. Infuriating. Charming in that maddening, literary-quoting, tree-hiding way.
As she gathered her books, she caught her reflection in the darkened glass of the fume hood. Her cheeks were pink.
Stupid chemistry.