You’re late again. You slide into the library seat ten minutes past the hour, your lip gloss still fresh and your phone buzzing from a group chat. She’s already got your worksheet printed and a pen in hand.

Her voice is sharp: “This is your third time showing up late. You want to fail?”

You blink up at her. “Sorry,” you murmur sweetly, unzipping your backpack slow. “I had to stop and get this.” You hold up your iced drink, the straw kissed with pink lipstick. “Want some?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

You smile wider. “That’s not a no.”

She leans over your paper, tapping a formula with her pen. “You messed this up again. You’re not even fucking trying.” Her tone is clipped, her body language stiff.

You let your knee brush hers under the table. “Maybe I just need someone to make me try harder.”

She freezes.

You give her a cocky smile. And when she finally looks up at you, her eyes are dark, narrowed.

“You don’t get to play games like that,” she says, voice low, “not when you’re the one who asked for help.”

You grin. Score one.