Semua Bab Hate You, Till I Don't : Bab 21 - Bab 30

POV: Ave --- Friday Afternoon – One Week After Results Ave had exactly three minutes to grab her notes, avoid Raven Dawson, and escape the robotics lab without having to speak to Blake. She failed at all three. Raven was in the doorway, flicking a mechanical pen open and closed with that smug, lipsticked mouth tilted into a half-smile. “Second place suits you, Imani,” she said, voice silk-wrapped steel. Ave gave her a bland look. “You’d know. It’s your permanent address.” Raven’s smile thinned. “Try not to cry when I take regionals, sweetheart.” “I only cry when I see bad code and bad brows. You qualify for both.” Raven flinched. Ave stepped around her into the room, heart pounding like it always did after a fight—but she didn’t let it show. She didn’t have time for Raven’s drama, not with the next challenge looming. And not with Blake sitting exactly where she didn’t want him: middle of the room, arms crossed, half-smile already loaded. “Didn’t take you for a fan of ver

POV: Blended (Ave & Blake) --- Ave – Robotics Lab, 8:12 PM Ave's sweatshirt was clinging to her back from the heat of the soldering station. The windows were fogged again, her fingers smudged with graphite and coil dust. The whir of the 3D printer was the only constant sound, and even it had started sounding like white noise to her ears. She was tired. She was wired. She was annoyed. With the project. With the stress. With Blake. Mostly Blake. "You didn’t align the sensor node," she said, voice tight as she adjusted the wiring. Blake didn’t look up from the schematics. "It is aligned." "It’s off by two millimeters." "Ave, two millimeters won’t break the system." Ave turned sharply. “You sure? Because that’s how we fried the panel last time. Your ‘close enough’ logic.” He exhaled, still not looking at her. “This isn’t about the node.” “Oh? Then what’s it about?” Now he looked up. And his eyes were sharp. “You.” The air tensed. Like a balloon stretched too tight. “You

POV: Blended (Blake + Ave) Blake — Tuesday Evening, Robotics Lab They were the last ones in the room. Again. The others had filtered out after finishing their circuit tests, chattering about the next qualifier round and who’d make the top four. Ave had said nothing all evening, and Blake wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. All he knew was that she hadn’t left. And that had to mean something. She stood over the circuit board, lips pursed in focus, a strand of hair falling in front of her eyes. Blake wanted to tuck it behind her ear. He didn’t. Instead, he fiddled with the last sensor module, feeling the air stretch tight between them. “Wiring’s clean,” she said, voice neutral. “If this doesn’t burn out, we’ll pass heat tolerance testing.” “Guess we make a good team.” Her shoulders twitched, like she didn’t know how to take that. Blake cleared his throat. “About yesterday…” “No.” He blinked. “No?” “I can’t talk about it. Not tonight.” His jaw worked. “Okay. Then I won

POV: Ave --- Saturday – Ave’s Room, 2:14 AM Ave’s room was silent, but her brain was chaos. She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, code glowing back at her. But her fingers weren’t typing. They were trembling. Too many thoughts. Too many emotions. Too many almosts. Almost kissed him. Almost let herself believe he meant it. Almost asked him to stay when the janitor unlocked the door at 1:00 AM and they left like nothing happened. Almost, almost, almost. She hated that word. Her phone buzzed with a message from Blake: > Made it home. Don’t forget to sleep. Prototype’s still trash without your logic loop. You’re kinda the brain, Ave. Night. She didn’t reply. Not because she didn’t want to. But because if she opened that door now, everything would flood in. She stared at her screen for another twenty minutes, then closed the laptop and curled into herself, fighting the ache in her chest that had no name. --- Sunday – Robotics Lab, Noon She didn’t sleep. Didn’

POV: Blake --- The Monroe house looked perfect from the outside. White columns. Black shutters. Polished brass door handles and a wraparound porch that screamed old money and generational perfection. The kind of place that appeared in brochures for top universities and legacy scholarships. Every flower was trimmed. Every shingle aligned. The whole image was curated, sanitized, and breathtaking in its deception. But Blake Monroe had long known the truth: Perfection was decoration. And his family’s reputation? Painted in layers of performance and denial. He dropped his backpack by the hallway bench and walked past the untouched formal living room. His father’s voice trailed in from the study, low and clipped. Probably on another call. Probably already disappointed. Blake didn’t pause to check. He headed upstairs. He didn’t need another speech today. He already carried the weight of it all. --- Blake – Age 10 He sat perfectly straight in his piano lesson. Eyes forward. Shoulder