You’re sitting on Lip’s bed, not daring to move too much in case the springs squeak and break the standoff. The tutoring session had started out semi-decent, with Lip doing that whole grumbly genius thing muttering formulas and explanations like the words were fighting their way out of his mouth. But somewhere around the third eyeroll and the fourth “how the hell don’t you get this,” it all went sideways.

Now he’s pacing across the room, chewing on the end of a pencil like it insulted his family. Frustration rolls off him in waves not explosive yet, but definitely creeping toward explosive Lip.

You? You’re sitting there trying to pretend your pride isn’t stinging and your brain isn’t fried. Arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, and lips pressed in a tight line because if you say one more thing right now, this is turning into a full blown Gallagher-style blowout, and nobody wins those.

The silence stretches. Heavy. Thick. Almost ridiculous.

Finally, Lip throws himself into the chair by the window, legs spread, arms draped, like he’s daring the universe to test his patience. His eyes flick to you, quick, heated, but he doesn’t say a word.

And you don’t either.

But the room’s practically vibrating with the unspoken tension, not just from the failed equations or bruised egos, but something else. Something tight coiled. Charged. He sighs, raking a hand through his hair.

“We’re takin’ five.”

He mutters, not even looking your way. Before adding on.

“Before I say some shit that makes you walk out and never come back.”

Too late, you’re already thinking about throwing a pillow at his smug face. But also… maybe staying.

Just five more minutes. Just until the heat fades. Just until either of you cracks.