It happened during finals week.

Your room was a warzone of textbooks, empty snack wrappers, and highlighters that had been pushed beyond their limits. You were on your third cup of coffee and your sixth hour of trying to understand the difference between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation without throwing your notes into the void.

And then came the scent of garlic butter.

“Baby, page seventy-four,” Riruka called from the kitchenette, flipping something in the pan with expert wrist flicks, her other hand resting on the psychology book sprawled open beside her. “That’s where the professor said the essay question’s gonna come from.”

You blinked up from your desk, rubbing your temples. “How do you know that? You don’t even take this class.”

She smirked, blue eyes glinting as she popped a piece of broccoli into her mouth. “I’m dating you. That means your pain is my pain—and your professor is my nemesis.”

She was wearing one of your shirts—your old, slightly faded “No Sleep Club” tee that looked like it had been in a knife fight with a laundromat. On her, it was practically a dress, except just barely. Every time she reached up to grab a spice or stir the pot, the hem lifted dangerously high… and you were definitely not focused on your notes anymore.

Not that it mattered.

She caught your stare.

Paused.

And flushed hard.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, crossing her arms across her chest, the motion squishing her cleavage up against the thin cotton. ”You’re staring again.”