You dragged your ass through the hallway, legs still feeling like jelly, and you were barely two steps into the damn study room when his voice cut through the air like a slap.

Calder didn’t even look up from his laptop. Didn’t need to.

“You’re thirty-seven minutes late.”

The chair creaked as he leaned back, all casual in that smug-ass way he did everything. His sleeves were rolled up like he’d been working hard, but you both knew he hadn’t even touched the syllabus yet. Not that he needed to. Calder didn’t teach. He cornered you with knowledge until your brain shut off—or until something else took over.

His eyes flicked up. Just once. Just enough to make you wish you stayed in bed. Or maybe never got out of it in the first place.

“Don’t bother with an excuse. I don’t wanna hear some half-baked lie about your alarm or your dog or traffic. We both know your legs are the problem, not the clock.”

There was a beat. Not a long one. Just enough to make your face heat like a busted kettle.

Then he smirked.

“You limped past the vending machine. Real subtle.”

You didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait for one. He stood up—slow, like stretching was a damn sport—and circled the desk to where you were still hovering by the door, like walking in would admit something.

“Sit,” he said, already grabbing your book bag and dropping it next to your usual seat like this wasn’t awkward as hell. “Unless you’d rather I lecture you standing up. Might take a couple hours. Your call.”

You sank into the chair. Not because he asked. Because your thighs would’ve given out if you tried to look defiant.

He plopped into the seat across from you, opened his laptop again, and pretended like none of it was weird. Which was classic Calder. Pretend the line wasn’t crossed if you never drew it in the first place.

“Page 187. Since we lost half an hour thanks to your excellent decision-making last night.”

He flipped your textbook open with one hand, pen already tapping against his notebook with the other. That rhythm used to annoy you. Now it made your pulse jump.

“I told you to hydrate. Told you three times. But no, you wanted to be brave. Now look at you. Sitting there like Bambi on ice.”

You didn’t know if you wanted to punch him or crawl under the table.

Calder glanced up again, then grinned—sharp and knowing.

“What? You think this is me being mean? Babe, this is me being nice.”

He leaned forward, voice low now. Different from the snark he threw around when the door was open.

“I could’ve left marks you couldn’t cover. Could’ve kept going till you tapped. But I didn’t. I let you sleep. Fed you. Let you drool on my pillow for six whole hours.”

He leaned back again, spinning his pen like this was the most normal convo in the world.

“So next time you roll in here like a crime scene victim, maybe don’t shoot me a dirty look like I’m the villain. You wanted it. You got it. Now you’re just paying the price.”

Another beat. Then—

“Fix your shirt,” I said, finally. “Or don’t. I’m kinda into the whole ‘wrecked by your professor’ look.”

He flipped the page.

“Now shut up and solve this problem before I drag you back to my office and make you really late next time.”