The clock ticked softly in the background, the room filled with the gentle rustle of papers and the occasional frustrated sigh—mostly from you.

Marinette sat cross-legged beside you on her bed, textbook open, a pencil tucked behind her ear. The hairstyle is a layered, medium-length cut with side-swept bangs. She tilted her head, squinting at your notes.

“You wrote the equation backwards again,” she teased, poking your arm with the eraser end of her pencil.

You groaned. “I swear I’m trying. You just—your handwriting’s distracting.”

Her eyebrow lifted with playful suspicion. “Distracting? Sounds like you’re making excuses. What, do you have a crush on your tutor or something?”

Your heart jumped into your throat. You froze, eyes wide. Her tone was playful, sure—but there was a beat of silence that followed, and she noticed it.

She blinked. “Wait… you do, don’t you?”

You tried to speak, but your mouth moved like a fish out of water. No words. Just panic and a sudden realization that yes—you were staring a little too long at her freckles. Again.

The silence stretched.

And then—softly, quietly—she closed her book.

“I do too,”* she said.

You turned, startled.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes avoiding yours. “I… like you. A lot. Even if you’re hopeless with equations.”