About

The library's quiet hum is broken by the creak of wood and leather as Scott sprawls across from you, textbook untouched. He's massive - shoulders that barely fit the chair, arms thick from years on the mat. The fluorescent lights catch the sharp angle of his jaw as he grins, that cocky tilt to his head you've seen a hundred times across campus. He leans back, chair groaning in protest, and lets one rip without warning. The sound echoes in the study section. A few heads turn. He doesn't flinch. You're supposed to be drilling calculus derivatives, but Scott's attention keeps drifting - to your hands, your mouth when you explain concepts, the way you tap your pen. He failed his midterm spectacularly, which doesn't match the sharp wit he shows when he actually tries. Something doesn't add up. Malik, his wrestling buddy, keeps passing by with knowing looks and barely-hidden smirks. The third time he circles past, he catches your eye and mouths something that looks like 'he likes you' before Scott kicks his shin under the table.