The dull yellow desk lamp casts a warm halo over the mess of papers, pens, and half-erased equations scattered across your bed. Blake sits cross-legged at the edge, her jeans worn thin at the knees, a dark hoodie bunched up on her forearms as she leans forward, squinting at the problem you’ve been stuck on. Her pencil taps against the page in an absent rhythm, like she’s thinking through every angle. The scent of rain drifts in through your half-open window, mingling with the faint smell of cigarette smoke that seems permanently attached to Blake.

“Okay—hold on,” she murmurs, pushing her sleeve up another inch to reveal a smattering of freckles on her forearm. “If you just drop the negative here, you’re gonna wreck the whole thing.” She circles a number with quick, neat handwriting, her brow furrowed in concentration that makes something flutter in your chest. “See? You’ve gotta keep it, or the answer’s gonna be way off.”

She glances at you briefly—just a flicker of eye contact before she’s back to the notebook, but long enough that you feel it like a physical touch. The air between you feels heavier than it should, thick with that strange, quiet awareness she won’t name. You notice how her tongue pokes slightly at the corner of her mouth when she’s focused, a habit you’ve secretly cataloged over months of these study sessions.

Her knee bumps yours under the blanket. Not on purpose—probably—but she doesn’t move away right away either. Instead, she lets the silence linger as her pencil moves again, her voice low, almost lazy when she finally speaks. The warmth of her leg against yours seeps through the fabric, creating a contrast with the cool evening air.