Xavier Rivera | NEPO BABY

The quad was on fire with that late-afternoon glow—sun sliding between the library and the rec center, flaring off every glass pane in a way that made the whole campus look air-brushed. The air smelled like lawn clippings and somebody’s bad vape juice. A bluetooth speaker near the fountain blasted old-school Drake; a couple of skateboard kids tried half-landed kickflips, swearing every time wheels slapped concrete. Syllabus week was technically months past, but nobody around here ever fully clocked in—classes were background noise to the social feed.

Leaning against a centuries-old stone column like it’d been installed for his personal aesthetic: Xavier Rivera. Black bomber jacket open just enough to flex the designer tee underneath, silver watch winking in the light. One Nike dunk crossed over the other, pose set to model-off-duty. If gravity had a favorites list, Xavier was top-three; everyone else orbited.

A few feet away, his permanent entourage held court:

Chris talks faster than most people breathe, already halfway through a hookup anecdote, hands carving the air like he’s conducting a symphony of nonsense. Dom six-four, linebacker build, boba straw flicking up and down like a metronome as he laughed at his own jokes. Hunter the guy who watches chaos like it’s a Twitch stream, chiming in when the moment needs a sarcastic reality check.

Chris jabbed the air. “Swear to God, she drops the classic ‘I never do this’—and I’m thinking, babe, you absolutely fucking do this.”

Dom’s laugh exploded, tapioca pearls nearly rocketing out of his cup. Hunter smirked, shaking his head.

Xavier barely shifted. His gaze slid across the quad, cataloguing everything—the improv club’s shabby poster board, the freshman with a giant cello case nearly tipping over, the TA he’d ghosted last month hustling into the math building. Eyes like security cameras, zero wasted motion.

Hunter elbowed him. “Earth to Rivera. You lose your swagger or just conserving battery?”

Xavier exhaled through his nose—half laugh, half dismissal. “Just saving brain cells, man.”

Chris pounced. “Brain cells for what? You’re allergic to thought outside profit margins.”

“Brain cells for not turning every sloppy make-out into an existential crisis,” Xavier shot back, flicking an invisible speck off his sleeve.

Dom raised his cup in salute. “Tell us how you really feel, Wall Street.”

Xavier pushed off the column a fraction, watch catching sun. “Look, college is a vending machine. You swipe your card, get what you want, and bounce. No reason to write Shakespeare about a bag of fucking Hot Cheetos.”

Hunter’s brows climbed. “Translation: you don’t do feelings.”

“Feelings throw off the math,” Xavier said, still scanning the crowd. “They make smart people flunk.”

Chris barked a laugh. “Bro, you treat love like an elective you’re refusing to take.”

“Exactly,” Xavier answered, tone silk over steel. “Audit if it’s fun, drop if it’s trash.”

Dom pointed a straw at him. “One of these days, some badass is gonna see straight through that expensive haircut and make you eat those words.”

Xavier finally looked at him—flat, amused. “Put money on it.”

Hunter leaned back, cup rattling with ice. “I’m Venmo-ready, dude.”

Chris added, “We’ll livestream the meltdown.”

Buzz. Xavier’s phone lit: ECON 312 starts in ten. He straightened. “That’s my cue to go watch a grad student butcher the word elasticity. Later, degenerates.”

He stepped off, shoulders rolling like he was heading for a board meeting, not a lecture hall. Hunter called after him, “Try not to impale any poor freshmen with your ego!”

“Can’t make promises,” Xavier tossed over his shoulder.

Dom cupped his hands megaphone-style: “Don’t buy feelings on the black market, big man!”

Xavier flashed a single finger back at them—half wave, half fuck off—and strode toward the academic building.

---

Inside, the climate changed fast—AC blasting, fluorescent lights buzzing like angry bees. Tile floors echoed every heel-strike. Flyers about study groups and lost AirPods littered the corkboards. The faint smell of burnt coffee drifted from a crusty Keurig in the lounge.

Xavier’s gait was textbook confidence: chin up, shoulders squared, pace calibrated so automatic doors opened at the exact instant he arrived. People peeled off the hallway like iron filings repelled by a magnet—they didn’t even register they were doing it.

Cut a left at the vending machines, next to the sad potted plant that had been dying since orientation week. He thumb-checked his phone: four unread texts, two from someone labeled “Maybe: Sofia,” already bored with that storyline.

Then the blind corner.

Physics happened.

Something slammed chest-first into him. Not a tackle—more like a deer running into a parked SUV. Loose papers exploded between them like low-budget confetti; a pen clattered away, clicking until it spun out.

Xavier staggered half a step—more surprised than impacted. Instinct had him planting feet, shoulders braced. A sharp gasp pinged off the white-brick walls.

He looked down.

The girl on the floor was a mess of notebooks, spiral binding dented, hair frizzed from static and panic. Glasses sat crooked on her nose; a tiny band-aid decorated one knuckle. She wore an over-sized sweatshirt advertising a club nobody cool had joined. Her eyes shot up—wide, mortified, but defiantly angry all at once.

Xavier’s first thought: Tiny. Second: Who doesn’t watch corners? Third: Shit, those eyes are kind of— He cut the thought, leaned back into the lockers, and folded his arms, expression a study in casual superiority.

He let three full seconds hang—an eternity in collision etiquette—before speaking. “So,” he drawled, voice low, bored, “we doing floor yoga, or you planning to stand sometime this decade?”

She blinked, cheeks flushing a deep, pissed-off red.

Xavier tilted his head, letting the smirk sharpen. “Seriously, it’s not that deep. The floor’s gross. Up you go.”

He still didn’t offer a hand. Instead, he watched how she gathered her stuff: quick, efficient, muttering curses he could barely hear. She jammed loose papers into a battered folder, snapped a pen between her teeth, and shoved a hair tie onto her wrist.

She stood, finally, brushing dust from her jeans. Only then did Xavier push a lazy boot against one rogue notebook, sliding it toward her. “Missed one.”

The girl snatched it without thanks. She looked up—had to, he was a solid foot taller—and nailed him with the kind of glare that usually came with a slap.

A laugh punched out of him, unexpected. “You hit me, Short Stack.”

Somewhere down the corridor a door slammed, but neither moved. Xavier’s brain noted the tremor under her irritation—fear, maybe? No. Fire. Interesting.

He uncrossed his arms, stepping closer just to test her. “Name?” he asked, tone soft but edged.

The feud had been brewing for a month—thirty straight days of rolled eyes in lecture, shoulders clipped in doorways, and one-up snark that buzzed around campus like bad Wi-Fi. People started rerouting their commutes just to dodge the fallout, because when Xavier Rivera and the quiet scholarship girl occupied the same square footage, oxygen turned combustible.

It finally ignited on a random Thursday outside the library. A student-org folding table was buried under flyers, half-empty coffee cups, and exactly one working stapler. She reached for it; Xavier snatched it first, never pausing the playlist pumping through his AirPods. A muttered curse slipped from her lips—too low to quote, but loud enough to sting. Xavier kept stapling his finance-club posters, a small ghost of a grin pulling at his mouth. Five or six onlookers clocked the tension and pretended their phones suddenly needed checking.

Ten minutes later, fate threw them back together in front of a vending machine. She was coaxing a crumpled dollar into the slot. The machine spit it out. Xavier huffed a smug laugh, shook his head like the universe was proving his point. That tiny sound detonated whatever civility had survived the stapler incident.

He tossed a one-liner over his shoulder—something about Monopoly money, something about “get your bread up.” She shoulder-checked him while trying to jam the bill back in. Xavier’s cup of lemon-lime fizz sloshed as he stumbled, eyes flaring.

His reply was sharper, colder: an insult about her “Dollar Tree hustle.” A couple of freshmen hovering by the water fountain pivoted their phones, ready for TikTok gold. She shoved him again—harder this time. Xavier’s drink hit the floor, neon liquid splashing over his Jordans.

That was it. He shoved back, backpack straps snapping tight across his chest as he closed the gap. She swung a canvas tote in defense; the corner of a textbook smacked his forearm. A chorus of gasps rose as the vending machine rattled like it might tip. Someone yelled, “Yo, chill!” but nobody got in the middle. The scuffle turned physical—open palms, elbows, a tangle of limbs and profanity echoing off cinderblock walls.

Campus security thundered in—two guards in neon vests spreading them apart, a third barking codes into a radio. Xavier’s pulse drummed in his ears; her lip was bleeding where she’d bitten it. They were marched down the hall like prizefighters who’d both lost.

An hour later they sat outside the admin suite, speakers of the ceiling PA muttering easy-listening jazz that made everything feel more absurd. Xavier’s knuckles were pink from tension; she kept rolling one torn strap of her tote between her fingers, eyes fixed on some middle distance.

The receptionist called them in. A blast of over-air-conditioned air hit as the door shut behind them. At a teak desk sat Dean Carla Alvarez, nails drumming a slow, deadly rhythm on a folder thick with incident reports.

She didn’t bother with small talk. “I’ve got footage, witness statements, and a vending machine that now lists sideways thanks to you two. Congratulations on being the week’s headline.”

Xavier exhaled through his nose, half-defiant, half-exhausted. The girl stayed silent, jaw set like concrete.

Dean Alvarez slid a single page across the desk. “Buddy System Initiative—read it.”

Xavier scanned, eyebrows hitching. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” Alvarez said. “Starting tomorrow you two are partnered on a semester-long research project. One topic, one grade, shared office hours, weekly check-ins. You collaborate or you fail together.”

Xavier pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dean, with respect, we can’t even share a hallway.”

“That’s why the project exists,” Alvarez shot back. “Consider it forced evolution. Another fight—verbal, physical, I don’t care—and you’re both on a two-week suspension. Anything after that? Expulsion. Full stop.”

The girl’s fingers stilled on her tote strap, but she didn’t speak. Xavier caught the flicker of fire in her eyes and almost respected it—almost.

“Professor Schultz will supervise,” Alvarez added. “He’s already briefed on your... dynamic. Eight a.m. sharp tomorrow in the study lounge. Miss it and you’re both done here.”

Silence stretched, thick and buzzing like a bad streetlight.

Alvarez leaned back. “Stand up. Shake hands. Now.”

Xavier’s spine protested, but he rose. He extended a hand, poker-faced. She took it—quick, tense, a spark of static snapping as skin met skin. No eye contact, just a grudging acknowledgment that the war had new rules.

“Dismissed,” the dean said. “Try not to redecorate the hallway on your way out.”

Back in the corridor, fluorescent bulbs hummed overhead while students flowed past, oblivious. Xavier started walking toward the stairwell. She matched his pace without meaning to, footsteps out of sync yet heading the same direction—like two magnets fighting polarity but stuck all the same.

He spoke first, voice low enough not to carry: “Tomorrow, eight. Don’t make me hunt you down.”

A twitch crossed her mouth—maybe rage, maybe a reluctant grin. Hard to tell. She veered left at the elevators, shoulder barely grazing his. No words, just the charged silence they’d perfected.

Xavier watched her leave, pulse still high, jaw still wired—but somewhere under the adrenaline, a strange calculation had begun. One project. One grade. One person he’d rather punch than partner with. He turned for the stairs, exhaling a clipped laugh that sounded half like dread, half like the thrill of kicking a beehive just to see what happens next.

The field-trip bus rattled out of the parking lot just after noon, lurching onto the highway like a giant tin lunchbox stuffed with caffeine, gossip, and cheap cologne. In the middle rows the air-conditioner wheezed between “blast-freezer” and “dead,” making the whole cabin smell like stale fries and plastic. Phone screens glowed everywhere, but the real entertainment was the silent war happening halfway down the aisle.

Leaning against the window on the left side sat the scholarship girl—knees drawn up, paperback cracked so wide the spine looked broken in three places. Each time she slid a page, the paper snapped loud enough to cut through the Bluetooth speaker up front that kept cycling the same pop remix. Directly across from her, sprawled in the aisle seat like a bored king, lounged Xavier Rivera. One hoodie cord dangled, one knee jabbed into the space in front of him, and every so often he drummed knuckles on the metal seat frame—just loud enough to register as an intentional annoyance.

When the bus hit a pothole, her elbow flew off the armrest and knocked his water bottle into the aisle. He raised an eyebrow, considering whether to call a foul. She ignored him, turning another page so violently the paper ripped. Instead of saying something, he tipped his phone screen so the overhead light glared directly onto her book. She shifted closer to the window. A stalemate settled in, thick as humidity.

---

Three hours and one emergency rest-stop later, the driver finally jerked the bus into the gravel lot of a lakeside lodge that smelled like pine cleaner and wet boots. Students poured out, dragging duffels and complaining about the Wi-Fi they hadn’t even checked yet. A corkboard inside the lobby held alphabetized room lists, thumb-tacked with exactly zero mercy.

He skimmed the sheet, lips parting in a silent laugh the instant he spotted his last name paired with hers. She walked up behind him, eyes raking the list until they landed on the same cruel pairing. The groan that escaped both throats arrived in perfect stereo. Around them, classmates traded gleeful looks—nothing beat live drama you didn’t have to star in.

They stomped down the hall like two storm fronts colliding. At the door marked 204B, the plastic key card bounced between their hands. She got it first, but he was faster yanking the lanyard. Plastic snapped his knuckles. The lock beeped red, then green, then red again as they each jammed the card in, trying to win by milliseconds. Finally he muscled her wrist aside, swiped clean, and shouldered the door open.

Inside waited a single queen-size bed, floral comforter neatly folded like an insult.

“You have got to be—” he muttered, finishing the sentence in a hissed profanity when the mattress squeaked under his test push.

The argument detonated instantly: • who’d haul extra blankets from housekeeping, • who’d claim the lone power outlet, • who snored (he denied it), • who hogged covers (she refused to answer).

Voices climbed fast enough to rattle the fake-wood headboard. A sharp knock cut through the yelling. The door cracked open to reveal Dean Carla Alvarez, clipboard already poised. She didn’t bother with pleasantries—just reminded them of the “buddy-system clause” the college had slapped on their disciplinary file: share the mattress, grab the spare blanket for the floor, or enjoy sleeping outside with the raccoons—but slam the volume. The door clicked shut before either could complain.

---

Rules laid down, they arranged an uneasy detente. He tossed a rolled-up hoodie onto the carpet to mark “his” potential floor spot. She stacked decorative pillows in a pathetic Berlin Wall down the bed’s center line. The overhead light clicked off; moonlight slipped through blinds in silver stripes.

He pulled the comforter halfway over himself, determined to crash. The instant his breathing slowed, the soft plink of a book light clicked on. Paper rustled—every turn a dagger to his skull. Five minutes later he exhaled like a dragon, flipped over, and yanked the paperback straight from her hands. One lazy overhand toss sent it skittering across the floor, pages fanning near the radiator.

She shot upright, hair half-loose, eyes sparking murder. A silent shove rocked his shoulder. He shoved back. The mattress dipped, legs tangled, the pillow wall collapsed in feathery defeat. Momentum pitched her forward, palms landing flat on his chest. His reflex swung an arm around her waist to keep them both from tumbling off the bed.

Now breathing was the only sound in the room—hers fast, his rough. In the dim light she could feel the steady hammer of his heart where her wrist pressed his sternum. The hold tightened for a second, just balance, nothing more... but something undeniably solid shifted below the waistband of his joggers.

He saw realization flicker across her face and let a crooked half-smirk slide in. Voice a sleep-rough whisper, he dropped the kind of line designed to scorch: “Congratulations—you finally figured out what hard work looks like.”

The temperature spiked, but she broke free first, scrambling to the far edge where the comforter had bunched. A murderous silence fell as she retrieved the battered paperback, now sporting new creases. No apology came from either side.

He flopped back, one arm over his eyes, grin fading to a thoughtful line. Across the mattress she lay stiff as plywood, staring at nothing, book forgotten. Between them hovered a charge thicker than the duvet—half fury, half something neither was ready to name.

Outside, a loon called across the lake. Floorboards settled. Somewhere a faucet dripped. Inside the cramped room, two enemies counted heartbeats, backs turned, both wide-awake and waiting for morning—because whatever happened now, the war had just changed its rules and neither side understood the new playbook.

Storm clouds gathered between them, thickening the air until even the walls felt like they might crack. The living room was spotless except for the disaster zone surrounding the coffee table—an explosion of highlighter-streaked articles, pens scattered like casualties, and the battered laptop acting as neutral ground. Her parents’ voices echoed in memory, all clipped warnings and final instructions: finish the capstone, don’t kill each other, keep it down. The front door had barely clicked shut before the room’s fragile peace began to unravel.

The clock ticked slow and heavy. Twenty minutes crawled by, filled with the frantic tapping of keys, the lazy hum of the ceiling fan, and the brittle, forced calm of two people holding back an argument with white knuckles. Every once in a while, their elbows would graze, sending both flinching back like they’d touched a hot stove. The air felt charged, the tension between them so sharp it seemed almost physical—like something you could cut with a pen if you stabbed hard enough.

He cracked first. His voice sliced through the hush, soft but jagged at the edges. She didn’t even turn; the flicker of her expression said everything. Retorts flared and burned out, flicking between them like sparks from a live wire. Each accusation—lazy, arrogant, control-freak, spotlight hog—hit with more force than the last. They didn’t have to shout. Every word, no matter how quietly spoken, landed like a thrown gauntlet.

They inched closer, like magnets drawn together against every ounce of logic. Glances held too long. Breath mingled in the space between sentences. The silence became a third presence, pressing in, making the air stifling. Her eyes flashed with challenge every time she looked up. When she swept her hair back in frustration, his gaze tracked the movement, almost involuntary.

A tiny spark—his hand brushing hers as they both reached for the laptop—lit the fuse. The touch was brief, accidental, but electric. She froze. He froze. And the next second, restraint snapped so violently it almost made a sound.

The laptop snapped shut. She pushed it aside, half-daring him to stop her, but his hand was already tangled with hers. The world spun dizzy-fast. They crashed together, mouths finding each other with a heat that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with weeks—months—of buried longing. He kissed her like it was an argument, like each pull and press was a point he needed to win.

Chairs screeched across hardwood. Books and papers slid to the floor. His hand slipped under the hem of her shirt, fingertips grazing hot skin. She arched, not pulling away but pressing closer, challenging him without a single word. Her own hands were in his hair, at his collar, tugging him closer, rougher, as if she could erase the line between push and pull.

He shrugged off his hoodie in one frantic motion, half-blind, never quite breaking the kiss. Her shirt bunched at her ribs, his knuckles sliding over bare skin, both of them gasping for breath. For a split second, she looked at him—really looked, cheeks flushed, lips parted, hair wild—and he felt his pulse stutter.

The living room faded. She pushed him back, laughter caught in her throat, and he tumbled after her, hands on her waist, mouth at her throat, biting back every apology he’d never make. Her back hit the wall, a dull thud softened by the adrenaline. She caught his wrist, spinning him, shoving him toward the open bedroom door. He grinned—a sharp, wolfish thing—and hooked an arm under her knees, sweeping her off her feet. She gasped, more surprised than afraid, clinging to his shoulders as he kicked the door shut behind them.

The room was a mess of tangled sheets and sunlight. He set her down on the edge of the bed, never quite letting go. Her shirt was half-off, her hair falling in dark waves over her shoulders. She reached back, pulling the tie from her ponytail, shaking her hair loose with a defiant little smirk. His hands were everywhere—at her waist, her ribs, the dip of her spine—soaking in every inch of bare skin revealed.

He leaned in, lips brushing her jaw, her cheek, tracing the shell of her ear. His voice, barely a whisper, vibrated against her skin. She shivered, not with cold but anticipation. Their breaths tangled, fast and shallow. Her hands pushed at the waistband of his jeans, teasing, testing boundaries neither of them had dared cross until now.

For a moment, they paused—shirts bunched, jeans tugged down just enough, socks abandoned somewhere on the floor. Everything about them was messy and undone: hair mussed, faces flushed, hearts beating like trapped birds. The tension was molten now, spilling over every time they touched, every time they looked at each other. There was nothing careful about this, nothing gentle. Just raw, electric need.

His hand found the small of her back, thumb tracing lazy circles. She bit her lip, eyes never leaving his, daring him to move first. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathless. The word hate was a joke now, an inside secret between bodies pressed too close to remember anything but this.

They tumbled sideways, landing in a heap across the bed—half-on, half-off, laughter muffled by pillows and hands and the sudden, breathless realization that they’d gone further than either planned, and still couldn’t get close enough.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes searching, hands gentler now as he traced the dip of her collarbone. “Still hate me?” he whispered.