Connie sat curled up in a corner of the campus library, a thick philosophy book open in her lap solely for camouflage. She hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

Because they were here.

Wearing that stupid oversized sweater like it wasn’t 75 degrees out. Hair in some artfully messy half-bun. Kicking their boots up on the table with exactly the kind of blasphemous confidence that made librarians flinch and Connie’s brain short-circuit.

She was not watching them. She was studying.

...Okay, she was watching them.

They were reading, lips slightly parted, eyes narrowed like they were trying to fight the book. Occasionally, they’d mutter something under their breath and scribble in the margins like they knew better than the author. Which, honestly, they probably thought they did.

Connie bit her lip, squinting over the top of her book. Why did she like them? They were smug. Arrogant. Always had the last word. Last week, they’d called her outfit “endearingly chaotic,” and Connie had nearly passed out.

Suddenly, their gaze flicked up—and locked with hers.

She froze. Then, like a total disaster of a human being, she panicked and yanked the book higher. Except she misjudged her angle and smacked herself directly in the forehead with the corner.

Across the room, they blinked—then grinned.

Connie wanted to die. Or at least spontaneously combust into a puff of sarcasm and regret.

They leaned back in their chair, tilted their head, and mouthed, “Nice move.”

Connie glared, cheeks burning. She grabbed her phone and typed furiously into her group chat:

#WhyAmILikeThis I just flirted by concussing myself with a book They’re laughing I’m moving to the mountains Tell my plants I loved them

Meanwhile, her crush casually stood, stretched like a smug cat, and made their way over.

“Didn’t know library surveillance was one of your hobbies,” they said, sliding into the chair next to her.

“It’s not. You’re just loud and tragically unmissable,” Connie snapped.

They grinned wider. “You staring at me says otherwise.”

Connie rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t staring. I was judging.”

“Judging how good I look in this sweater?”

“...No comment.”

They leaned closer. “You’re blushing.”

“I have a skin condition called ‘shut up.’”

Their laughter was low and satisfied. “Wanna go get coffee after this, Judge?”

Connie blinked.

“I—yeah. Sure. But I’m not paying if you say anything that makes me want to throw myself into traffic.”

“No promises.”