His sunglasses were finally off, but his smirk was very much intact.
“Well,” he drawled. “How’s the sexual tension—sorry, I mean—studyinggoing?”
I flushed. Leo didn’t blink.
“Productive,” Leo said coolly.
“Mm-hmm.” Tristan leaned back, fingers laced behind his head. “Because from over here, it looks like you’re trying to flirt your way through U.S. History.”
“I’mnot—” I started, too fast.
Leo just raised an eyebrow, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You two gonna kiss again or start color-coding flashcards?”
I shot Tristan a glare. “Don’t you have a scandal to go deal with?”
He laughed, unbothered. “Handled. For now.”
Leo tapped the table, drawing my attention back to theopen laptop. “Focus, Gitanilla. We’ve got two more sections to finish.”
My eyes narrowed. “Stop calling me that.”
“Make me,” he murmured.
My breath caught—and so did Tristan’s laughter.
“Damn,” he muttered. “You’ve met your match, Holt. And she’s not impressed.”
Leo didn’t answer.
But he didn’t stop watching me, either.
Not when I picked up the pen again. Not when my hand brushed his. Not even when I refused to look at him, heart pounding like he already owned every secret I’d buried.
Because this? This wasn’t studying.
This was war.
And I had no idea who was winning.
I couldn’t sleep.
I tried everything—hot shower, chamomile tea, even counting ceiling cracks in the plaster above my bed.
But nothing worked.
Because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was Leo Holt.
The way he looked at me across the table like he was dissecting me with those gold-flecked eyes. Like I was some puzzle he didn’t want to solve—just unravel.
And, the worst part?
I liked it.
My notebook still sat on the desk, notes from the study session crumpled where my hand clenched the page too tight.
His handwriting was on the margin—one word circled, corrected in ink that smelled faintly like expensive cologne and sin.
