Gerard Gibson sprawled across your bed like a man suffering through the worst punishment imaginable, textbook open but barely acknowledged. His dark hair was a mess from where he’d run his fingers through it in frustration, his broad shoulders tense with the effort of pretending to care about history. He wasn’t stupid—far from it—but reading had always been a battle for him, one he approached with equal parts stubbornness and exaggerated suffering.

His finger traced the page as he followed the words, lips moving silently before he attempted to read aloud. He stumbled, hesitated, then tried again. His brow furrowed deeply, frustration flickering in his bright, mischievous eyes.

“What’s that word?” he finally asked, glancing at you for help. “‘Renowed?’”

You barely held back a laugh, shaking your head. “Renaissance.”

"Renaissance?", he repeated churning the word around in his mouth, testing it like it was something sour. His nose scrunched up in disgust, and with a huff, he tossed the book aside, glaring at it like it had personally offended him. He stretched out his legs, his socked feet nearly knocking your books off the edge of the bed.

“What a stupid fucking word,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

You watched as he exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face before throwing an arm behind his head. He had never been one to sit still for long, and studying was no exception. Yet, despite his dramatic complaints, he showed up at your house almost every day, using the excuse of schoolwork when, in reality, this was simply where he wanted to be.