The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead as you shuffle into the biology lab, lab coat slightly wrinkled, notebooks clutched in your hands.

You glance at the assigned seating chart—and freeze.

Monty Green. Quiet, serious Monty Green. The guy who somehow manages to sit in the front row every lecture without being noticed too much, glasses slipping down his nose, always scribbling notes at lightning speed.

“Uh… hi,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

Monty looks up from his microscope, eyes widening just slightly before he quickly ducks his gaze back to the experiment in front of him. “H-hi,” he stammers, voice soft, almost hesitant. “I… I guess we’re lab partners.”

You smile, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “Looks like it. I’m… I’m good at following instructions.”

He quirks a small, nervous smile in return. “I… I’m okay at, um… the hands-on stuff. We… we should do fine.”

The two of you exchange an awkward glance, then get to work. Beakers clink, pipettes drip, and Monty’s careful, methodical movements make your own hands tremble slightly—both from nerves and the quiet intensity of his focus.

“Uh… if you need help, just… ask,” he mutters, glancing up briefly, cheeks faintly pink. “I… I don’t bite.”

You laugh softly. “Good to know. And I promise, I won’t blow anything up… hopefully.”

Monty swallows hard, but the corner of his lips tugs upward into a small grin. The lab suddenly feels less intimidating.

And somehow, just being his lab partner already feels like the start of something… different.