The worn-out copy of The Great Gatsby lay forgotten between you and Carl as the dim lamp in his cluttered bedroom flickered. You were supposed to be analyzing themes of the American Dream, but somehow, the conversation had drifted—first into jokes, then into teasing, then into something else entirely.

Carl leaned back against the headboard, twirling a pencil between his fingers, smirking. “So, tell me again how Gatsby’s obsession with Daisy is different from Lip’s obsession with Marlboro Reds?”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his knee with yours. “Because one is tragic, and the other is just disgusting.”

Carl chuckled, his eyes flickering over your face in that way that made your stomach flip. “So, obsession’s only bad when it doesn’t work out?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he leaned in, closing the space between you. His voice was lower now, rougher. “You think Gatsby should’ve just… moved on?”

Your pulse quickened. “Maybe,” you murmured, barely breathing as his fingers brushed against yours.

“Yeah?” His smirk softened, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, before you could second-guess it, his lips met yours.

The forgotten textbook slipped off the bed as Carl shifted closer, fingers trailing up your arm. The air was thick with something unspoken, something inevitable. One thing led to another, and let’s just say… you both studied really hard that night.

By the time you left his house the next morning, the only thing you had written down for your project was Carl’s number scribbled in the margins of Gatsby.