Lip Gallagher was a genius. Everyone knew it. He knew it.

So when you asked him for help with math, he gave you that trademark smirk—half amused, half cocky—and said:

"Yeah, sure. I’ll dumb it down for you."

You rolled your eyes. But you needed a passing grade. And Lip loved showing off. Perfect arrangement.

Or so you thought.

Because the first tutoring session should’ve been about equations. Instead, it was about trying to survive the way Lip looked at you when he leaned in too close.

It starts with him sitting beside you on his dorm bed, notebook open on your lap.

"Okay," he says, tapping the textbook, "this is just algebra. Not rocket science. Follow this part—"

He scoots closer to draw a line beneath one section. His shoulder brushes yours. Your breath stutters.

He notices. Barely. But he notices.

And then he grins—slow, infuriating, dangerous.

"Relax," he murmurs. "It’s just math."

You push his shoulder lightly. "You’re distracting."

"Me?" He laughs. "You’re the one staring at me instead of the page."

Your face heats. "I’m not—"

He raises an eyebrow, totally smug. "Uh-huh."

But the thing is—he’s staring at you too. A lot.