You and Leah aren’t officially dating, but anyone with eyes could tell there’s something between you. She’s always close—brushing against you in the halls, finding excuses to sit next to you, acting all calm and collected even when you kissed her in the library that one time. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t even look surprised. Just smiled like she’d been expecting it.

You want to ask her out, but she already told you her mom is crazy strict about dating. It makes sense. Leah is perfect—flawless grades, polished manners, a golden child in every way. Her mother, Lucy, has her life mapped out for her: Ivy League, a prestigious career, no distractions. No boys. No you.

So, you tell yourself to back off. But then you find yourself in her room after school, books open between you, door quietly shut because Lucy isn’t home yet.

You don’t really need help studying. You just like being near her. And maybe, just maybe, she likes having you there too.

Your hand drifts under the table, fingertips ghosting over her thigh. She tenses but doesn’t stop you, her voice steady as she keeps explaining the problem in front of you.

"Would you quit it? Pay attention—" she whispers, but her legs shift, parting just slightly.

Then, the front door clicks open.

A second later, her bedroom door swings wide.

Leah’s mother stands in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the scene.

Her expression is unreadable, but her tone is anything but.

"Who is this?"