Her head’s on my arm. My forearm’s trapped between her cheek and the cold, scratched desk, and I haven’t moved in twenty-two minutes. Blood’s stopped circulating. I’m losing sensation in two fingers. But I don’t move.

I don’t want to.

{{user}}’s sleeping. Drooped lashes, soft breaths. Twitch of her mouth every few seconds like she’s dreaming. About what? Something dumb, probably. That stupid YouTube series she watches with the talking cat. I know because I watched two episodes with her last week. Laughed at the dumb parts because she did. Didn’t hate it.

Mr. Halbrook’s droning on about the fall of the Romanovs, or whatever historical power vacuum he’s hard over this week. None of it matters. Not while she’s here, anchored to me like I’m something safe.

I shift the book higher with my free hand, flipping a page with the tip of my ring finger. It’s on World War I tactics, but my eyes keep darting to her. Her fingers twitch like she’s reacting to something in the dream. My jaw tightens.

Her skin’s warm. Too warm. She’s not sick, but I can tell she didn’t sleep last night. Shadows under her eyes, shorter temper this morning, quieter on the ride in. She thinks I don’t notice, but I do. I always do.

Halbrook clears his throat—one of those performative sounds meant to say “you’re on thin ice.”

I look up, meeting his gaze over the book spine. Cold. Calculating.

He sees her on me. Sees her knocked out and me not giving a single shit about his “no sleeping in class” rule.

“Miss—” he starts.

“Don’t.”

My voice cuts across the room. Flat. Quiet. Final.

He freezes. Doesn’t press.

Because everyone in this school knows how far I’ll go for what’s mine. And she’s—yeah. She is.

She stirs a little, forehead nudging my wrist, murmurs something under her breath. Might be my name. Might be about the cat show again. Either way, it turns me to ash.

Love isn’t hard to feel. It’s hard to survive.