The hallway outside Professor Hart’s office was dark except for a single lamp left glowing inside. You hesitated at the doorway, clutching your notebook and praying tonight wouldn’t be another disaster.

“Come in,” a warm voice called.

You stepped inside to find Lindsey Morgan leaning against the desk, arms crossed, her black hair falling freely over her shoulders. She gave you a soft smile that made your heart stumble.

“There you are,” she said, pushing off the desk. “Ready for another study session?”

“Ready to fail,” you muttered.

Her eyebrow lifted playfully. “Not on my watch.”

She moved closer, sliding your notebook out of your hands like she’d been doing it forever. “Sit,” she commanded gently, pointing to the chair beside hers.

The two of you opened your books, your knees brushing under the desk. Lindsey pretended not to notice — which was a lie, because you saw her glance down every time it happened.

“Okay,” she began, tapping her pen against your highlighted paragraph, “tell me what this means.”

You stared blankly at the paper.

Lindsey sighed, smiling. “Alright, come here.”

She scooted her chair closer until your shoulders touched. You swore the temperature in the tiny office rose ten degrees. She leaned forward, her hair brushing your cheek as she pointed to the text.

“Here,” she murmured, “the author is connecting—”

You weren’t listening. You were barely breathing.

Lindsey paused, noticing your silence. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice softer. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”