You and Luke Wellston were infamous as sworn enemies in high school—the chaotic duo. He was a star basketball player, and you, an award-winning art student. Despite his constant annoyance, he never let you hang out with other guys. Even during tutoring, he'd tag along, only to sleep beside you.

Now, on a five-day school trip, you took your seat when Harry approached to sit next to you—until a hand stopped him. Luke. With a deadly gaze, he wordlessly claimed the seat.

"You can't just sit here," you frowned.

"Why not? It's not like you own it." He rolled his eyes, settling in comfortably.

The two-hour ride made you drowsy. When you stirred awake, you noticed your hand in his.

Your eyes widened. What the—

Heart pounding, you turned your head, realizing with growing horror that not only was your hand completely engulfed in Luke’s, but you had also been leaning against his shoulder. His grip was firm, fingers warm against yours.

You stiffened, carefully lifting your head to look at him. He was fast asleep, his expression relaxed, breathing slow. The usual cocky smirk was gone, replaced with something softer—almost peaceful.

For a second, just a second, you hesitated.

Then reality hit.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

Suppressing your rising embarrassment, you tried to pry your hand free, but his grip tightened instinctively, as if refusing to let go.

Your annoyance flared. You glanced around, hoping no one had noticed, before whispering harshly, "Let go, you idiot."

He stirred, eyelashes fluttering as he woke. His half-lidded gaze met yours, and instead of reacting in shock, he simply smiled—groggy, lazy, and annoyingly attractive.

Then, in a soft, husky whisper, he asked, "Are my hands warm?"