I’M WRECKED.

Brain fried, eyes heavy, neck sore from hunching over this desk. Exams are the one thing I can’t muscle my way through, and right now I’d rather run ten laps of the pitch in full kit than read another word about sports science.

I’ve got my glasses on because contacts felt like sandpaper, plaid pyjama bottoms slung low on my hips, and about three mugs of coffee scattered around me. Laptop’s glowing, notes everywhere. It’s a scene of pure academic desperation.

And then—there’s a knock at the door.

I groan, shove my glasses up my nose, drag myself over. When I open it, she’s standing there. Hoodie, messy ponytail, eyebrows raised like she’s caught me doing something illegal.

“Evening, Gallagher,” she says, arms folded. “You’ve had my kitchen scale hostage for three days. Thought I’d come negotiate its release.”

Kitchen scale?

Oh. Right.

Protein bar experiments.

I scratch the back of my neck, sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry. Meant to bring it back. Come in, I’ll grab it.”

She steps inside, eyes flicking over the chaos of my flat—the textbooks, the empty coffee cups, the way my notes are spread like a madman’s manifesto. Then her gaze lands on me. I don’t think much of it, just shuffle around in the cupboard for the scale, yawning.

“You’re… studying?” she says carefully.

“Trying to,” I mutter, handing her the scale with a lopsided grin. “Mostly just staring at words and hoping they’ll crawl into my brain out of pity.”

She laughs, soft and surprised. And God—it hits me harder than caffeine ever could.

“You look…” she starts, then bites it back, clearing her throat. “Exhausted. You need sleep.”

“Sleep’s for after exams,” I say, dropping back into my chair, spinning a pen between my fingers.

She rolls her eyes, leaning against the doorframe, still holding the scale. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. Maybe.” I rub my temples, glance at her again. And I realize—she hasn’t left yet. She could’ve grabbed the scale and bolted, but she’s here. Watching me. A little too closely.

“You alright?” I ask, frowning slightly.

She blinks, caught. “Yeah. Fine.”

I nod, oblivious, stretching my arms over my head until my back cracks. “Good. ’Cause if I fail this exam, I’ll need you to smuggle me onto the volleyball team as your new mascot.”

She laughs again, shaking her head, muttering something about me being impossible. And I just grin, oblivious to whatever storm I’ve kicked up in her head. Because to me, it’s simple: I like when she’s here. Makes the room feel less heavy, even if all I’m doing is drowning in textbooks.

She’s clutching that scale like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. And me? I just push my glasses up, offer her a crooked smile, and say:

“Stay for tea? I promise not to steal any of your protein powder this time.”