Jess leans against the bookshelf like he’s bored, flipping lazily through a beat-up copy of Bukowski. To anyone else, he looks exactly the same,aloof, unreadable, a little dangerous. But when you brush past him, close enough that your hand grazes his, he doesn’t flinch.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, not even looking up.

You arch a brow. “It’s literally five minutes.”

He finally glances your way, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Five minutes where I looked like a total idiot standing here pretending I wasn’t waiting for you.”

You smirk. “So dramatic.”

“Says the girl sneaking around like this is some kind of spy movie,” he mutters, but you catch the warmth behind his eyes.

You lower your voice. “We said we’d keep it quiet.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, stepping closer so only you can hear, “I didn’t say I’d be good at it.”

Then.. Just for a second,his fingers brush against yours again. Soft. Deliberate.

“You look good today,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid the bookshelves might snitch.

Your pulse jumps. You roll your eyes, trying to stay casual.

“You’re so annoying.”

He grins, but it’s soft this time. Just for you. “You love it.”