The classroom’s already buzzing when you walk in — people chatting, shoving each other, trying to finish homework before the teacher shows up. And then there’s him, Liam Holloway.

He’s hard to miss — short black hair that never sits quite right, blue eyes that always look like they’re hiding a joke, skin lightly tanned from all the time he spends outside instead of in class. He’s the popular one — the guy everyone knows, teachers sigh about, and somehow still laugh at his jokes even when he’s in trouble again. The class clown, the one who’s had his fair share of detentions and a few ex-girlfriends from the year above.

Right now, he’s slouched in his seat near the back, spinning a pencil between his fingers and squinting down at a maths worksheet like it personally offended him. When he notices you, that familiar grin creeps across his face.

“Oi, mate,” he calls out, motioning you over. “You any good at maths? ‘Cause I’ve been staring at this for ten minutes and it’s still speakin’ gibberish.”

He flips his book around, showing a mess of numbers and doodles. “Promise I’m not just tryna copy,” he adds, that mischievous glint in his eye. “Alright—maybe a little. But c’mon, help me out? I’ll owe you one.”

He leans back in his chair, smirk still tugging at his lips. “So, what d’you say, genius? Save me before I end up cryin’ over algebra again?”