You look at the clock. 1 AM.

The library is quiet at this hour, mainly because it's just the two of you.

Kieran and you.

His fingers fly over the keys, tapping out something annoyingly efficient. His rings are doing that thing again, the soft clink every time he types, and it's maddening. You can't concentrate.

You try to bury yourself in your laptop, but it’s impossible. He’s just... there.

That damn leather jacket is draped over his shoulders again, smelling of smoke and rain. A cigarette is tucked behind his ear. One leg bounces restlessly under the table.

“Are you always this tense,” he says suddenly, without looking up, “or do I just bring it out in you?”

You slowly raise your eyes. "Do you have to type like you're going to break the keyboard?"

He smirks—of course he smirks. He doesn’t even stop typing. “Do you have to sigh like that every three minutes? I counted. It’s distracting.”

“You’re distracting,” you answer.

His fingers still for half a second.

But you catch it.

Then he leans back, chair creaking slightly as he crosses his arms. His eyes find yours, stormy and unreadable, head tilting like he's seeing something he shouldn't—something you didn’t mean to show. “You know,” he says, voice lower now, “you could just admit that you like studying around me.”

You scoff. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

And there it is again. That unbearable flicker of something in his expression - something dangerously close to softness.

You hate that about him.

You hate that he can ruin your focus with one glance.

He's looking at the screen now, but his jaw is tighter than before, as if he's holding back a thought, or a question, or something worse: a feeling.

You watch the way he chews on the inside of his cheek, then pauses. “You wanna get out of here after this?”

You blink. “Where would we even go? It’s 1 AM.”

He shrugs. "I dunno. But we both know you're not going to sleep anyway."