It happened during a cram session.

One second, you were sitting at the dining table, drowning in college notes and trying to remember if mitochondria was the powerhouse of the cell or just your personal enemy.

The next, Alice slid into the seat beside you—closer than usual.

Way closer.

She wore one of her usual perfectly-fitted cardigans, hair up in a lazy, regal bun like she couldn’t decide if she was studying or about to be crowned empress. Her glasses slid a bit down her nose as she leaned in, hips shifting to press her side against yours.

And her chest?

Firmly—undeniably—resting against your arm.

You froze like a deer caught in emotionally confusing headlights.

“Focus,” she said, tapping your open book with a red pen. “This formula. Say it.”

You tried. You really did.

But every brain cell was screaming boob contact while she calmly explained linear equations like she wasn’t suffocating you with silent Russian pressure and lavender perfume.

“I—I think it’s the slope one?” you muttered.

She sighed, her breath brushing your cheek. “Incorrect. This is statistics. Not algebra. You have slept through too many lectures.”