You should be studying.

You really should. There’s a whole worksheet between you and Pope, filled with scribbled half-answers and smudged notes, and he’s got that furrow between his brows that means he’s taking this seriously.

Or trying to.

But his knee’s been brushing yours under the table for the last ten minutes, and neither of you have moved.

You’re both pretending it’s nothing.

“I think I’ve read the same sentence three times,” you mumble, staring down at your notes without seeing any of the words.

Pope glances at you, and there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Same. This is the worst study session I’ve ever had.”

You don’t say anything just turn the page like you didn’t hear it, but your heart’s picking up anyway.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him glance at you again. He does that a lot. Like he’s waiting for permission to say something he isn’t sure he’s allowed to.

The sun’s dipping low now, turning the porch gold. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head like he’s trying to play it cool but his knee bumps yours again, and this time, it lingers.

“Do you ever think about…” he starts, then trails off. He hesitates, then shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Never mind.”

You reach out and nudge his arm. “Don’t do that. Say it.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And the space between you feels full of everything you’re not saying.

“Just…” He exhales. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one feeling this.”

And there it is.

You don’t answer right away because your chest is tight and your throat’s suddenly too warm.

“No,” you say finally. “You’re not.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just sits there with that soft, stunned look on his face like hearing that meant more than he expected it to.

The moment lingers. Doesn’t need more than that.

“Cool,” he murmurs, almost shy now. “Just… makin’ sure.”