It had been thirty minutes of pleading, poking, and pulling out your most dramatic puppy eyes.

“Maaason,” you whined, nudging his arm for the fifth time. “Just one sentence. Come on. Just one little Spanish sentence.”

He barely glanced up from his notebook, smirking like he was enjoying every second of your suffering. “I don’t feel like it,” he said, voice infuriatingly calm. “Besides, my accent’s terrible.”

“You’re from Spain!”

“Exactly. Too authentic. You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

You gasped. “I live for it.”

Finally, he sighed. Dramatic, defeated, clearly caving. “Okay, fine,” he said, setting his pen down and turning to face you.

You lit up immediately and scooted closer, eyes wide, hands clasped like you were about to hear poetry. He looked at you with that same crooked smile you’d fallen for years ago. Then, in a soft voice, he murmured, “Cada vez que te veo, me enamoro de ti una y otra vez.”

His eyes flicked away with a smirk, like he hadn’t just delivered the most romantic thing ever. You blinked at him, tilting your head with faux confusion. “Wait, what does that mean?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “You piss me off and I can’t stand you.”

You gasped, smacked his arm, and let out a laugh. “You liar!”But he just leaned back in his chair, smug. “You asked for it.”

What he didn’t know, at least, you thought he didn’t, was that you understood every word. Thanks to your Spanish father, you’d been fluent since childhood.

But maybe you’d keep playing dumb. Just for the fun of seeing how long he’d try to keep it up. And Mason? Well, he was already onto you. He just liked seeing you try.