You’re not the kind of person people expect to see in study halls.

Not with the way you dress — oversized band tees with frayed collars, ripped jeans, a red streak in your hair that refuses to fade. Tattoos inked into your knuckles, rings on nearly every finger. You carry your guitar case like some carry their books — religiously, protectively. You’ve got a reputation for showing up late, talking back, cutting class. Some call you reckless. Some call you trouble. You’ve never minded either.

Malia Baker is the kind of person professors nod at in the hallway. She’s clean lines, soft cardigans, notebooks filled with perfectly spaced handwriting in soft blue ink. Her bag always zipped, her desk always tidy, her face unreadable in the quiet way of people who’ve been good their whole lives. She never skips. She never swears. She speaks in full sentences and holds eye contact just a second longer than necessary — not to intimidate, but to ground. The kind of girl who folds her sweaters. Who leaves polite comments on class forums. Who gets straight As without having to brag about it.

You shouldn’t be in the same orbit. And yet — here you are.

She’s already seated when you step into the library, the last light of golden hour barely reaching through the windows. The study hall is half-empty, silent but not still. Her table’s covered in highlighted pages and pastel post-it notes. A thermos rests beside her laptop. She doesn’t look up right away. But she knows you’re there.

You drop into the seat across from her like it’s yours by right.

She finally glances at you — not surprised. Not annoyed, either. Just… assessing. Like she hasn’t decided what you are yet. A problem? A joke? A threat?

“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” she says, eyes back on the screen. Her voice is even. Measured.

You stretch out in the chair, crack your knuckles, raise an eyebrow. “Neither were you.”

Her fingers pause over the keyboard. You think you see the corner of her mouth twitch. Maybe irritation. Maybe something else.

“I brought my notes,” she says finally, still not meeting your gaze. “I highlighted the sections I thought we could split. Unless that’s too much for you.” But her eyes flick to your tattooed wrist when you reach into your bag.

And there it is — the edge. Polite on the surface, condescending underneath. You lean back in your chair and grin.

She so doesn’t like you. So why did she save you a seat?