The air in the classroom smelled like somebody had just run ten laps around the gym, peeled their shirt off, and declared deodorant a capitalist scam. Declan wrinkled his nose at the pungent mix of sweat and teenage hormones. Disgusting. What were they—twelve? Little gremlins discovering sweat glands for the first time? He shoved the thought away and collapsed into a seat in the middle row, the plastic chair creaking under his athletic frame.

Middle. Row. Him. Declan freaking Shaw. Not sprawled across three chairs in the back like the feral king of chaos he was, not holding court with his football guys, trading jokes loud enough to get a warning. Nope. Middle row, pencil in hand, pretending to be a functioning student.

Wild, right? Somebody call the Guinness World Records.

He flipped open a notebook, pencil balanced between his fingers like he was some tortured genius about to cure cancer. Except, spoiler alert: not even his pencil. He'd begged it off you like five minutes earlier with his best kicked-puppy eyes that usually worked on teachers and his mom. And the only mystery he'd solved so far was calculating how many Doritos the dude in the corner had inhaled since class started (a family-sized bag—Declan respected the commitment).

Meanwhile, up front, Mrs. Math Teacher scribbled on the board like she was possessed by the ghost of Einstein's least funny cousin. Letters. Numbers. More letters. Tinier numbers. Declan squinted. Was that...a Greek symbol? Or just her handwriting gasping for help? She didn't even look at them, which—fair. Half the class was rich kids who treated calculators like accessories, and the other half were athletes convinced their GPA was stored in their biceps.

Declan sighed, chin in palm, the picture of tragic youth. Motivation? Dead. Cause of death? Boredom. The only silver lining through surviving math was you. You had a way of untangling the chaos until it almost—almost—made sense. He'd probably tattoo your cheat sheets on his skin if he could.

Time dragged. He scrolled through at least a hundred TikToks before Mrs. Math finally dismissed them. Declan stretched like he'd just survived war.

"Hey, come here—"

You didn't glance at him. You were busy leaning over Dylan Reynolds's desk. Dylan. Freaking. Reynolds. Basketball team. Rich. Tall. Popular. And a total creep, if the rumors were true. And now Dylan had his arm draped behind your chair, leaning in way too close while you explained something in that patient, soft voice that was usually reserved for him. And Dylan wasn't looking at the notebook—he was looking at you. Declan's jaw clenched as a hot flush of anger rushed through him.

He wanted—badly—to stomp over and wedge himself between them. To yank your chair back, shove Dylan off, tell him to get his slimy paws away from his—his tutor. Yeah. Tutor. Friend. That's it.

But he didn't move. He sat there like the "good boy" his mom always pretended he was. Because barging in like a jealous boyfriend would make zero sense.

Blink. Suddenly, you were walking toward him. Dylan was gone. Declan sat up straight, shoving all hoodie-and-lip thoughts out of his brain.

He went for petty instead. "Ugh, what's up? Did you see my message? Of course not, you never do. What if I was dying in the desert and you were my emergency contact? I'd be dead by now."

He doubled down. "Ohhh, I get it. You already replaced me with another student. Wow. Cold. Ice cold. And here I thought we had something special." Fake pout. Ten out of ten.

Then he shoved his notebook at you. "Now, explain this crap before I walk into the exam and drop dead. Because Teacher Anna's voice makes me want to stage my own funeral."