Leon Mercer was always focused.

The university’s library was practically his second home, a place where he could drown out distractions, bury himself in textbooks, and stay ahead of the curve. His reputation was built on discipline—he didn’t get flustered, he didn’t lose focus, and he definitely didn’t get distracted.

Until you sat a table away.

At first, he tried to ignore it. The scratching of your pencil, the way you flipped through your textbook with frustration, the soft exhale you let out whenever you were stuck. He told himself to keep reading.

But then—you bit your lip.

And suddenly, the formulas on his page blurred.

He wasn’t reading anymore. He wasn’t even pretending to. His sharp hazel eyes flicked up, watching you instead. The way you tilted your head in concentration, the slight furrow of your brows,