[Editing]

The next afternoon, I sat tucked into the farthest corner of the library, near a rain-soaked window that blurred the world into watercolor.

It was quiet here, save for the occasional turn of a page or the muffled footsteps of students browsing shelves. A perfect spot, far from distractions. Or at least, it should've been.

Across from me, Wallace slouched in his chair with effortless defiance, as if he belonged on a stage under a spotlight rather than at a study desk.

His white button-up shirt was wrinkled in all the right ways, the collar undone just enough to break school rules, sleeves rolled up with absent-minded charm. No tie. No blazer. Of course.

It was late November, and though winter hadn't fully settled in, the chill in the air hinted at its approach. Outside, students clutched hot drinks and bundled into scarves. Inside, the heating was warm enough to ditch coats—but not all your layers. Most of us still wore sweaters, cardigans, something.

But Wallace? Just that thin shirt, cuffs unbuttoned, chest half-bared to the cold creeping in through a cracked window.

Is he not... cold??

I told myself it wasn't my concern. Still, my eyes drifted—to the exposed strip of his forearm, to the faint line of his collarbone peeking out from between those undone buttons.

He spun a pen between his fingers with effortless ease, the metal catching the light as it twirled. But it wasn't the pen he was watching.

It was me.

I pretended not to notice. I'd grown good at pretending. Still, the weight of his gaze pressed against my skin like a touch, and something restless stirred inside me.

I shifted in my seat, adjusting the stack of textbooks between us, aligning them until they sat in a perfectly symmetrical row.

It gave me something to do. Something to control.

Without looking at him, I opened his grade book and skimmed down the columns of numbers and faded red marks.

"Your strongest subjects are English and Science. You actually do well when you bother to turn in your work. History's fine. Math, though..." I paused. "Math is a disaster."

From the corner of my eye, I saw him lean back with a dramatic groan, stretching so far that the hem of his shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of skin.

For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.

A tattoo. Just above his hip. Ink curling like smoke across his skin before disappearing beneath the waistband of his khaki trousers.

I tore my gaze away, pulse thudding loud in my ears.

I didn't know he had tattoos.

My fingers clenched tighter around the pen.

"Figures. Numbers and I have never been on good terms," he said, voice low and lazy.

"That's because you don't try," I muttered, clearing my throat a little too sharply and tapping the page with my pen to cover the sound. "You're not incapable. Just lazy."

He gave me a smirk, slow and teasing, like I'd said something charming instead of insulting.

"Ouch," he said, tilting his head as his eyes caught mine. "That almost hurt."

Warmth crawled up my cheek before I could stop it. I quickly flipped to the next page, willing my tone back into a neutral rhythm.

Keep it professional. Keep it distant.

That's what I came here to do.

"Math is the priority. Followed by science—specifically chemistry. Your last test score was... abysmal."

Abysmal?" he echoed, clutching his chest with mock offense. "Hey, in my defense, those formulas look like someone sneezed out a secret code."

"They're not random," I said, keeping my tone clinical. "If you'd study them properly, you'd see the patterns."

"Patterns, huh?" He leaned forward slightly, and the pale afternoon light from the window caught the blue in his eyes, making them seem deeper and softer. "So you're telling me chemistry has secret codes. See, now you're speaking my language."

I rolled my eyes. "You're hopeless."

His grin widened.

"But I'm your student now," he said, voice dipping into that teasing tone that always found its way to scrape against my self-control. "So it's your job to fix that."

You don't need fixing.

The words nearly slipped out but I swallowed them down like medicine.

"Lucky me," I muttered instead, flipping open the textbook. "We'll start with algebra."

Wallace groaned, slumping theatrically in his seat. "No warm-up chat? No 'How was your day, Wallace?' or 'Wow, Wallace, you look so devastatingly handsome today'?"

I shot him a dry look. "We're here to study, not to inflate your already alarming ego."

"Multitasking exists, you know."

"I don't multitask."

"Well, maybe try it today."

"Wallace, multitasking's a terrible habit. So, no. Not today. Not ever."

"You never know—"

"Fine." I took a breath, pressed my lips together, then added more evenly, "How was your day, Wallace?"

His grin stretched across his face, smug and impossibly pleased with himself. "The usual. Slept through class. Got love letters. Got invited to parties..."

My hand twitched, fingers tightening around the edge of the page.

Love letters.

So he accepted them now?

And yet, he'd torn my envelope to shreds without a second thought, just because he thought it was my love letter.

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𓂃 𓈒⚝

With an irritated sigh, he bent down and snatched it up. Without hesitation, he tore the envelope open, ripping the delicate paper apart, the pieces fluttering to the floor like broken petals.

The wind teased the scraps, making them dance, swirling and spinning in the air like fragile butterflies caught in a gentle breeze.

"Now, tell me. I'm giving you a chance to confess to me right now. I really hate receiving stupid love letters like this."

⚝𓈒𓂃𝐄𝐍𝐃

"And now," he added with a wink, "a delightful math session with my lovely tutor. Highlight of my day, obviously."

"Charming," I muttered, jabbing my pen into the workbook harder than necessary. "Now focus."

He picked up his pen with exaggerated defeat. "Yes, ma'am."

I gave him a basic problem to start with. Just enough to ease him in. Not to test. I wanted to see how he approached it, where he stumbled, if he even would.

He hunched over the page with theatrical agony, yet his hand moved steadily. Confidently.

Meanwhile, I found myself distracted.

His clothes. The cold.

The window beside us rattled softly with a gust of wind.

I stood and crossed the narrow space to shut it—not just to keep the warmth in, but to silence the noise of my restless, overthinking mind.

Back in my seat, I busied myself with his past tests, scanning red-inked notes and crossed-out answers. He wasn't bad. Not really. Somewhere along the way, he'd just stopped trying.

Five minutes passed. I checked his answer, then pointed to the next problem.

"This formula requires isolating the variable first. See here—"

"Hm."

I looked up sharply, catching that same damn smirk tugging at his lips.

"What?" My voice came out clipped.

"Nothing." He leaned back lazily, hands folding behind his head. "Just thinking. You're always working. Always serious. Don't you ever want to stop?"

The question landed harder than it should've. A soft hit to the ribs, bruising all the same.

"I don't have time for breaks," I said too quickly.

"You should try it," he said, softer now. "Let loose. Live a little. You might surprise yourself."

His words from Sunday echoed in my head for the millionth time.

"You don't have to be anyone but yourself, especially when you're with me. I want you to be happy, Des. For real."

I wanted that too. So badly it ached.

But wanting didn't erase the shadows that clung to me. Didn't unchain me from the voice that whispered, You can't.

So I couldn't let him in. Not fully.

"Let's focus," I said, pushing the textbook toward him. "Your grades won't fix themselves."

"Fine, fine. Anything for my cute tutor."

My pen paused midair. There it was again. That heat in my cheeks blooming without permission. It scared me how easily it came.

I pressed on. "Flattery won't get you out of this."

"Wasn't trying to," he murmured. And this time, the smirk was gone.

We fell into rhythm again—my corrections, his complaints, the occasional tap of his pen against the edge of the desk.

He didn't talk much when he focused, and when he did speak, it was always with that casual lilt, never letting on how much effort he was really putting in.

Then he said something that shifted the air again between us.

"Albert would get a kick out of this."

"Albert?" I echoed, glancing up.

"My best bud," he said, tapping his pen on the table. "You've probably seen him."

"Yes." I nodded slowly. "He's a senior. Student Welfare Chair. Attends the council meetings sometimes." I narrowed my eyes. "He used to tutor you?"

"Yeah. When I let him."

I raised a brow. "Then why accept my help?"

"Because he's busy. College stuff. Part-time jobs. Real life." His smile dimmed at the edges as he looked sideways. "I didn't want to drag him into my mess again."

My heart tightened slightly.

That look on his face, somewhere between forced indifference and silent retreat. I knew it too well. The way someone detaches just enough so it doesn't look like they're bleeding.

"You mean the scholarship?" I asked.

He hesitated. Something flickered behind his eyes. Then he gave a crooked grin that didn't quite land. "Yeah. That."

"And the six months you ran away?" I added quietly. "Were you staying at his place?"

His gaze snapped back to mine. Sharper now, guarded. Then he gave a low, dry chuckle. "You've done your homework."

I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "It's not hard when your life's a public spectacle. But... is it okay if I ask why you left?"

I already knew the answer. Every detail. But I wanted to hear it in his voice.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"I needed space," he said finally. "Away from my father. I thought if I disappeared, he'd get it. That I wasn't going to be what he wanted."

"Did he?"

His laugh was bitter this time. "No. I just made my mom cry. Drove my brother away. I came back because... hurting them wasn't worth proving a point."

A sharp pang shot through me. Unexpected, but familiar. Because I understood that kind of guilt, that calculation of whether your freedom was worth someone else's heartbreak.

I curled my fingers around my pen, forcing my face blank.

"And now?" I asked.

"Now I'm here. With you." His smile returned but softer this time. "Life has a funny way of circling back, doesn't it?"

His gaze held mine, and something in it twisted my resolve. Pulling at me like a tide inching closer, daring me to step in.

You're supposed to be pushing him away, Desiree. Not leaning in.

"And you'll stay here until this session's over," I said briskly, nudging the book forward. "We're not done."

He chuckled under his breath. "Yes, ma'am."

We picked up again. The lesson resumed, filled with his endless quips and my half-hearted glares. The kind of banter that masked something more fragile underneath.

By the time we packed up, the light outside had dipped into amber. Shadows stretched long across the floor.

Wallace stood and stretched like a cat, arms overhead, spine arching lazily.

"You know," he said, flashing a grin. "I think I actually learned something today."

"Good." I slung my bag over my shoulder, my voice crisp again. "We'll continue tomorrow."

I turned to leave, but he called out—quieter this time. A shift in tone I felt before I heard it.

"Desiree."

I stopped and turned back to him warily. "What?"

He didn't smile this time. No teasing. Just that same gentle quiet he rarely wore.

"Is something wrong?"

The question knocked the wind out of me. Subtle. Disarming.

I blinked, startled. And for a moment, afraid—afraid he'd seen me again. That somehow, beneath all my polished edges, he'd caught the hairline fracture.

"Why?" I asked, careful.

He studied me for a moment.

"You're smiling," he said. "But it's your same old smile."

My heart skipped. My lips parted—then closed again. The room felt too still.

I cleared my throat. "Whatever do you mean? This has always been how I smile."

"Right..." His tone was skeptical, not mocking.

Then he stepped forward slowly, until he stood just close enough to notice the quickened pace of my breath. Close, but not touching.

His voice dropped, lower now. Almost tender. "Just know you're prettier when it's real."

The words landed too gently to fight off.

I couldn't answer. Couldn't even hold his gaze. Not without breaking something I'd worked too hard to keep sealed.

So instead, I turned and walked away, gripping my books like armor pressed to my chest.

His words shouldn't matter.

But they did.

...

𓇢𓆸

ᴍᴇʟᴏᴅʏꜱʜʜʜ