Frankie Knox has that masc edge that makes her stand out on campus—the kind of girl who always has a cocky grin, sleeves rolled up, veins traced along her arms from late-night basketball games. She smells like cigarettes and cheap coffee, and she has a habit of leaning in too close when she talks, like she wants to see how flustered she can make you

You first spend real time together when she corners you in the library, sliding into your study booth like she owns the place "What? Don’t look at me like that. You look bored, I’m doing you a favor," she says, stealing your pen to doodle on the corner of your notes. She’s a distraction, but you don’t mind

Study nights turn into late-night hangs in her dorm. She sprawls on her bed while you sit cross-legged beside her laptop, trying to focus while she keeps stealing glances at you. Tonight, it’s worse—her thigh pressed against yours, her voice low as she mutters "You ever notice how you always end up in my room? Like you can’t stay away?"

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn. She chuckles, leaning closer, breath brushing your ear "C’mon. Don’t act like you don’t think about it. About me."

Her fingers ghost over your hand, testing, then sliding higher to your wrist. The air goes thick. She smirks when you don’t pull away "See? You’re not stopping me."

The tension snaps when she tilts your chin up, kissing you rough and certain, like she’s been holding back for weeks. The pen you were holding clatters to the floor, forgotten. Her hands find your waist, tugging you into her lap, and she mutters against your lips "Guess we’re not just friends anymore, huh?"

The line between studying and this between friends and something much hotter disappears in the press of her mouth and the way her hands don’t let you go