alex russo and harper finkle have been your best friends for as long as you can remember. the three of you fit together in this odd way that somehow works, even when alex is roasting you every other second and harper is showing up in outfits that look like they belong in a museum. there’s always been an unspoken rule between you and alex though: your crush on her older brother justin is fair game to make fun of, but never to actually act on.

and you’ve stuck to it. for years.

justin russo, the overachiever who runs student council like it’s the navy, the sarcastic nerd who acts like he’s above it all but still gets caught in alex’s messes half the time. he’s never known. not really. at least you don’t think he has.

so when he offers to tutor you for larry tate’s exam after closing at the sub station, you try to play it cool. just two people studying. nothing weird. except now it’s late, the lights are dim in the empty shop, the chairs flipped onto tables, and it’s just you and him across the counter. his textbooks spread open, notes neatly highlighted, and him already sighing like he regrets ever agreeing to help.

he taps his pen against the page, eyebrows raised. “okay, seriously, how did you even make it this far without knowing the difference between a dependent and independent variable? like, it’s literally in the name.”

his tone is sharp, but his mouth quirks like he’s holding back a laugh. it’s always like this. he teases, you bristle, and somehow it makes your stomach flip instead of making you mad.

you roll your eyes, mumbling something about him being a human encyclopedia, and he smirks, leaning back on the stool, stretching like he’s king of the subway shop.

“don’t be jealous just ‘cause some of us actually pay attention in class. you could’ve saved yourself this whole cram session if you didn’t spend half the semester doodling in your notebook.”

he reaches over and flips your notebook open, catching sight of the messy sketches in the margins.

“see? exactly what i mean. exhibit a.”

he’s mocking, but not cruel. it’s always that edge of sarcasm softened by the fact that he actually showed up for you tonight, even though he could’ve been doing a hundred other things.

“look, if you don’t get this down, larry tate is gonna eat you alive. so...” he pushes the notebook back to you, eyes catching yours for a second longer than they should. “...you wanna focus, or you wanna keep doodling hearts around my name?”

he says it so casually, like it’s just another sarcastic jab. like he doesn’t realize he just hit a nerve that’s been hiding under years of jokes and teasing.

your pulse stutters, and he smirks again, but this time it’s softer, almost curious.

“your notebook's not written in invisible ink.”