The only thing worse than working with Kai Blackwell on an academic project was being trapped with him for an entire afternoon at LACMA—where every piece of art seemed designed to remind Aria that some things couldn't be controlled, catalogued, or color-coded.
The Los Angeles County Museum of Art sprawled under the relentless California sun like a modernist fever dream. Tourists wove between Chris Burden's Urban Light installation at the entrance—202 restored street lamps standing in perfect formation, their cream-colored glow softened by the afternoon haze. The iconic sculpture should have felt inspiring, but all Aria could think about was how each lamp represented the kind of meticulous planning and attention to detail that her academic partner seemed allergic to.
She adjusted her messenger bag strap and checked her phone for the third time in five minutes. Their required museum analysis was worth twenty percent of their pre-departure grade, and she'd spent the previous night creating a comprehensive tour strategy that would maximize their time across LACMA's sprawling campus.
Kai strolled up fifteen minutes late, hands buried in his UCLA hoodie pockets, aviator sunglasses pushed back through his dark curls like he was arriving at a beach party instead of an academic assignment. The effortless confidence in his stride made her jaw clench.
"You're late," she said without preamble, pulling out her meticulously organized folder. "I've mapped out our route to cover the contemporary wing, the American art galleries, and the ancient civilizations exhibit in exactly four hours."
"Relax, sunshine." His grin was maddeningly casual as he glanced at the museum's imposing facade. "It's art, not a military operation."
"It's both," Aria snapped, her folder crackling as she gripped it tighter. "We're required to analyze three specific pieces from different time periods and cultural contexts. If you'd bothered reading Professor Marlowe's email instead of treating this like a casual museum stroll—"
"I don't need to read emails to appreciate art," Kai interrupted, that trademark smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I just feel it, you know? Let it speak to me."
Aria stared at him in disbelief. "Feel the art? That's not academic analysis. That's pretentious loitering."
They made it exactly ten minutes into the contemporary galleries before the sabotage began in earnest.
When Kai asked to see her research notes, Aria suddenly "forgot" to share her carefully compiled source list about post-war American painters. When she needed him at the Jackson Pollock exhibit for their scheduled collaboration time, he texted her the wrong gallery location, sending her sprinting across the museum's sprawling campus like a lunatic while other visitors stared.
By the time she found him lounging on a bench in front of a massive Rothko, casually scrolling through Instagram, her professional composure had cracked beyond repair.
"This isn't working," she hissed, her voice echoing off the gallery's soaring walls.
"Finally, something we agree on," Kai shot back, not even bothering to look up from his phone. "Your micromanagement is killing any chance of actual artistic inspiration."
A group of middle schoolers on a field trip shuffled past, whispering loudly about the "fighting college couple." One particularly bold seventh-grader pointed directly at them while stage-whispering, "My sister says college students are supposed to be mature."
Aria's cheeks burned with humiliation, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. They still had two more galleries to cover, and failure wasn't an option—not when her scholarship hung in the balance of every single assignment.
The war of attrition continued as they pushed through LACMA's labyrinthine layout. She ignored his actually insightful observations about the interplay between light and shadow in the photography wing. He wandered off mid-explanation when she tried to contextualize the historical significance of the ancient Roman sculptures.
By hour three, they weren't academic partners—they were combatants in an endurance test disguised as cultural education.
"I can't work like this," Aria finally exploded as they stood before a towering installation of twisted metal and neon lights. Her binder pages fluttered as she gestured wildly. "This is supposed to be collaborative analysis, not academic warfare!"
"Good," Kai said, his voice stripped of its usual teasing tone. "Because neither can I. You've turned every piece of art into a homework assignment."
They glared at each other across the gallery space, the tension thick enough to set off the museum's fire alarms. Other visitors gave them a wide berth, clearly sensing the hostility radiating from their corner of the contemporary wing.
It was Kai who finally broke the stalemate, pulling out his phone and frowning at the screen. "No service down here."
Aria glanced around, suddenly realizing they'd somehow migrated to the museum's lower level—a maze of service corridors and storage areas that definitely wasn't on any visitor map. The polished gallery floors had given way to industrial concrete, and the carefully curated lighting had been replaced by harsh fluorescents that made everything look slightly dystopian.
"Great. Just perfect." She tightened her death grip on her binder, mental GPS already spinning in useless circles. "Now we're lost."
But then something unexpected happened. Kai's cocky facade slipped just enough to reveal something that looked almost like competence.
"Actually, I know where we are," he said, his voice softer and stripped of its usual mocking edge. "I've been here before. The layout's pretty much memorized."
Aria blinked at him in genuine surprise. "You? Actually useful for something academic?"
His grin returned, but it was gentler this time, less about winning points and more about sharing something real. "Don't look so shocked. I'm not completely hopeless."
And to her absolute horror, he wasn't. Kai navigated them through the basement's institutional maze with surprising confidence, past storage rooms and conservation labs, through corridors lined with crated artworks waiting for their moment in the spotlight. He moved like someone who'd spent serious time in museums, not just posed for Instagram photos in front of famous paintings.
For one terrifying moment, Aria almost trusted him completely.
But then the museum's PA system crackled to life with the mechanical efficiency of closing time: "Attention visitors, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art is now closed. Please make your way to the nearest exit. Thank you for visiting LACMA."
Kai immediately moved toward what should have been the stairwell back to the main level, but when he pushed against the heavy metal door, it didn't budge.
He tried again, putting his shoulder into it. Nothing.
"It's locked," he said, stating the obvious with the kind of calm that made Aria's panic spike exponentially.
Her heart dropped straight through the floor. "Locked? How is it locked?"
"Automatic security system," Kai said, though he sounded less certain now. "They probably seal off the service areas after hours."
The fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, then dimmed to emergency lighting. The museum fell into an eerie silence broken only by the distant hum of climate control systems. And Aria realized with growing horror that she was trapped in LACMA after dark—alone with Kai Blackwell.