The morning after felt like a blur, a haze of heat and impulsivity left behind in tangled sheets. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything—it was never supposed to last beyond the dim glow of streetlights and the taste of smoke on Jaxson’s lips.

But then there they were.

Standing at the front of the classroom, shoulders stiff, face carefully blank, but Jaxson could see it in their eyes. That flicker of recognition. The same kind of shock that must have flashed across his own face before he schooled it away.

He was slouched in the back, tapping his pen against his desk, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips despite the tightening in his chest.

Of all the feckin’ luck.

They didn’t look at him as they took their seat, not directly. But he caught the way their fingers tensed around their notebook, the way they shifted like the air in the room had turned suffocating.

Jaxson, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his lip. He was good at playing it cool, at making it seem like none of this mattered. But it was impossible to ignore the memory of their skin against his, the weight of their body pressed into his bed just hours ago.

The teacher droned on, but he wasn’t listening. His gaze flicked over to them, waiting for them to meet his eyes.

And when they finally did—just a fleeting glance, hesitant and sharp—Jaxson grinned.

This was going to be interesting.