I brush it off.I’m not here for that.Not today.
“I thought we could work on the assessment,” I say, dropping my bag to the floor with a thud.
I sit at the foot of her bed, stretching out my legs.She doesn’t move, still standing there, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to solve some equation I’ve got no part in.I ignore her and fish the notes out, spreading them across the carpet between us.
Still, she doesn’t move.
“Are you planning on helping or just watching me?”I glance up and catch her staring full tilt, no shame.Her mouth tightens, then she exhales as if she’s finally made a decision.
We get to work.
Our notes are scattered across the floor in messy piles, highlighters and loose pages overlapping as if we’ve done this before, even though we haven’t.I glance at her once, twice, and keep doing it like I don’t know any better.She’s already sitting cross-legged across from me, leaning over a handout.
Every time she moves closer, I get a whiff of her perfume.It’s soft, citrusy.Fuck, it’s addictive.It hits me right in the chest and sticks behind my sternum.It’s insanely distracting.
She’s quiet while we work.Not cold, not distant.Just… careful.
Her sentences are brief, her tone slightly clipped, as if every word passes through some filter in her mind.She’s holding herself back, avoiding eye contact.Yet her cheeks have been flushing nonstop since I sat down, and I can tell she’s thinking about it—about us—as much as I am.
She leans forward to grab a pen, and her long lashes sweep down, brushing her skin.I watch them too long, following the flicker of her eyes as they scan the worksheet.I should concentrate on the notes.I should ask about the assignment.But all I can think about is how stunning she looks when she’s trying not to look at me.
Her voice breaks the silence.“This question on this old test is marked wrong, but I think it’s right.”
I don’t answer right away; instead, I observe her face, the small furrow between her eyebrows, and the way she chews the inside of her cheek when she’s deep in thought.I’m not even sure I care about the question she’s discussing—I’m too busy watching her.
There’s this moment when I almost ask, “Do you regret it?Did you mean it when you acted as if it meant nothing, or were you trying to make it hurt less?”But the words get stuck.I bite down on them and force my attention back to the paper.
“Yeah,” I say instead, circling the answer with my pen.“You’re right.They probably marked it wrong.”
We keep working.
Our hands brush once when we reach for the same paper.She pulls back as if I burned her, but her fingers linger for a second longer than they need to.
We still don’t talk about it.Not the kiss.Not the fact that everything’s changed since then.But it’s obvious in how her lashes lower every time I look at her, and how I pretend I don’t notice.
Maybe that says more than any of us ever will.
I pack my stuff slowly, dragging it out because I’m not ready to leave this room.I’ve spent the last hour pretending her thighs aren’t painted into those tights.
She finally stands, brushing imaginary dust off her legs, as if she needs a moment to gather herself, and then—fuck.
She smiles.
At me.
And not some polite, neutral, “thanks for the homework help” bullshit.
This one’s real.Soft, sweet, full of something I’ve never seen on her face when I’m in the room.She’s never smiled at me like that.That’s how she smiled at that dickhead by the lockers last week—the one I almost knocked the fuck out just for existing near her.
“You’re not so bad at this,” she says, and it’s not about the assessment.
I stare at her, my bag on the floor forgotten, because I’m two seconds from crawling across the room and kissing that smile off her lips.“Don’t tell anyone.I’ve got a reputation.”
That makes her laugh.
That sound hits me straight in the fucking chest.
My feet move me toward the door, but I’m not sure if my mind is with me.She opens it before I can and steps into the hallway.Her shoulder brushes mine, and I don’t step away.
