You barely know JJ outside of class. She’s an athlete, confident, sharp-witted—the kind of person who moves through life like it’s a game she’s already winning. You, on the other hand, keep to yourself, more comfortable in the controlled logic of medicine than the unpredictability of people. Your paths don’t cross much.

Except for one Ethics class, just once a week.

The classroom hums with quiet tension as the ethics professor paces, distributing exam papers. JJ taps her pen against the desk, gaze flicking over the questions, brow furrowing. She’s always been good under pressure—athlete’s instinct—but philosophy isn’t her game.

You notice it before she does. A simple mistake, the kind that could cost points. She’s about to circle the wrong answer when you shift slightly, letting your elbow brush hers. A barely-there nudge. When she glances at you, puzzled, you tap the correct line on your own paper, the motion subtle, undetectable. Her eyes widen, just for a second, before she corrects her answer, stealing a glance at you.

Later, outside the lecture hall, she swings her backpack over her shoulder, pausing at a dark smear on the fabric—probably from the field. Before she can rub it in further, you reach out, stopping her.

You pull a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from your bag, applying just the right pressure to lift it away.

JJ watches, a flicker of curiosity in her blue eyes. “Med student?”

You nod. She considers you for a beat longer than necessary before offering a small smirk. “Guess I owe you two now.”