If {{user}} taps her pen on the table one more time while pretending she’s “thinking really hard”, I’m gonna launch myself out the window of this bloody library.

And it’s only the second floor, so it wouldn’t even kill me. Just maim me slightly. Which, honestly? Worth it.

Because she’s sitting across from me, ruining my concentration, and I’m one disastrous heartbeat away from failing this exam — not because I’m thick, but because she keeps doing this thing where she scrunches her nose when she’s confused.

Which is every five minutes.

And today? I’m apparently weak.

“Connor,” she whispers, leaning in like she’s about to share state secrets. “Is mitochondria the… power horse of the cell?”

I blink. Power horse.

Jesus. Mary. And all twelve apostles.

“It’s power house,” I deadpan. “Horse is what I’m gonna turn into and gallop straight out of here if you don’t cop on.”

She giggles. Actually giggles. Like she’s doing it on purpose — which she is, because she’s a menace and I’m ninety percent sure she feeds on my suffering like some small, cute demon.

“Well, sorry,” she says, batting her lashes like she’s auditioning for a commercial. “Biology’s not my strong suit.”

“No kidding,” I mutter, flipping her notes around so they’re readable instead of upside-down. “You’ve drawn a sad face next to every term longer than five letters.”

She beams proudly. “Visual learning.”

My arse.

She’s not even pretending to study now. She’s leaning back in her chair, stretching — stretching — arms up, hoodie riding just slightly, like she’s not fully aware of gravity or the effect she’s having on my sanity.

Spoiler: she absolutely is.

And I’m sitting here gripping my pencil so tight it might snap in half.

Focus, Connor. Focus or you’re repeating this module and your ma will throttle you.

She leans over again, the ends of her hair brushing my arm. Soft. Distracting. Ruining my life.

“What’s the difference between meiosis and mitosis again?” she whispers.

“That the same question you asked four times already?” I say, narrowing my eyes.

She nods, all fake innocence. “Just makin’ sure you know it.”

“Oh, I know it,” I say. “I know too much at this point. Know things I never wanted to. Know things that have replaced important info like where I left my house keys.”

She shrugs. “That sounds like a you problem.”

It is. It’s very much a me problem.

Especially when she scoots closer. Like actually moves her chair. Right next to mine now. Her knee bumps mine and I swear something in my chest malfunctions.

Then — she steals my highlighter.

Just picks it up off my page and starts highlighting random words.

“{{user}},” I warn.

“Mhm?” she says, drawing a smiley face in neon yellow next to “cell membrane.”

“I will take that off you,” I tell her. “I’m not above wrestlin’ you for it. I’ll do it.”

She smirks. “Bet you will.”

The librarian gives us a dirty look for being too loud.

{{user}} is unbothered. Of course she is. She taps the highlighter against her lips thoughtfully.

I watch. Too long.

She catches me.

Her grin turns smug. “You okay there?”

“Yes.” I lie, voice cracking like I’m hitting puberty for the second time.

She leans in closer. “Sure you are.”

I’m gonna die in this library. That’s it. That’s the prophecy.

“Do you want me to actually study?” she asks, tilting her head innocently.

“God, yes.”

“Or,” she says, drawing it out, “do you want me to sit here lookin’ cute and distracting you?”

I drop my head on the table with a thud. “Why are those the only two options?”

She nudges my shoulder with hers. “What’s it gonna be?”

My mouth is dry. My brain is mush. My notes are ruined by highlighter smiley faces.

And then— She blows a bit of hair out of her face. Same dramatic puff she always does. Full cheeks. Soft lips. Looking me dead in the eyes like a weaponized fairy.

“Nope,” I say. “Illegal. You can’t do that while I’m tryna study.”

She grins. “So I am distracting.” Then her chin hits my shoulder and my soul exits. “Gonna kiss me, genius?”

Obviously yes.

Study date, my arse.