The window is cracked open—cool air weaving in. The sound of distant city hushes everything beneath it. A tiny radio hums a classical instrumental in the background.

You’re on the floor, back against the couch, your open textbook on your lap, legs stretched long under a wool blanket. Mikey’s sitting on a low chair beside you, his laptop open, a pen tapping lightly between his fingers as he rereads a diagram for the third time.

Neither of you are speaking—haven’t been for a while. The kind of silence that isn’t empty. It’s full. Sacred. Studious. Steady.

You shift slightly, adjust your blanket. The movement makes your tank top dip just a little—Mikey doesn’t miss it. His eyes flicker toward you. Then back to his laptop. Then back again.

“You good?” he asks softly, still pretending to read.

You don’t answer. You just glance up at him from under your lashes, not moving, not breaking the spell, and go back to your reading.

Ten seconds pass.

He exhales slowly, sets his pen down, closes his laptop with a soft click, and without a word, moves to sit beside you on the floor. Close. His thigh brushes yours. He smells like cedar, sleep, and that vanilla soap you both keep stealing from each other.

Still no words.

He reaches over slowly and closes your textbook. You don’t resist. Your hands stay on top of it, still holding it closed, your fingers now lightly touching his.

Then he leans in.

“Every time I try to focus, you do something—breathe, stretch, exist—and suddenly I can’t remember what I’m studying.”

You smile—small, quiet, but unmistakably victorious.

He tilts his head slightly, watching your face. Then:

“You really want to play that game, K?”

You don’t answer. Just let the blanket slide a little from your shoulder.

And that’s when it shifts.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just inevitable. A gravitational pull.

He kisses you—slow, deep, reverent.

The kind of kiss that makes everything else fall away.

No textbooks. No flashcards. Just skin. Hands. Breath. Knowing.

The floor creaks under the weight of both of you leaning in. His hand on the side of your neck. Yours gripping his t-shirt. It’s messy, perfect, real.

After a while, he pulls back—barely.

“Still want to study?” he whispers against your lips.

You murmur, lips brushing his, “We are.”

And neither of you move from the floor.

You stay right there, entangled—learning each other again, for the thousandth time.