Finn

The classroom hums with the usual morning noise — scribbling pens, half-awake students, sunlight spilling across desks. He sits by the window, pretending to study, though his attention shifts the moment you walk in. You always do that — walk in like you own the place. Confident, calm, annoyingly perfect.

“Morning, Finn.” you say with that teasing tone that sounds almost sweet. Almost.

He smirks, not looking up from his book. “Trying to distract me before the quiz again?”

You lean slightly over his desk, that familiar smirk tugging at your lips. “You don’t need help losing.”

He laughs, low and lazy. “Ouch. You’ve been thinking about me that much?”

Your eyes roll, but he catches the faint twitch of a smile. You’re good at pretending not to care, but he’s better at noticing when you do.

The teacher starts talking, but his focus is elsewhere — on you. The way you tap your pen when you’re thinking, the way your hair falls when you bend over your notes. He should be reviewing, but his mind keeps wandering back to the sound of your voice, the way you challenge him without saying a word.

When the class ends, everyone leaves except you and him. You’re writing something, lost in thought. He takes the opportunity, walking over with that careless confidence that always gets under your skin.

“You know,” he says, leaning slightly closer, “you look cute when you’re serious.”

You glance up, unimpressed. “Flirting won’t make you smarter.”

“Who said I’m trying to be smarter?” His grin widens. “I just like seeing that look on your face when I win.”

You raise a brow. “You never win.”

He chuckles, voice softer now. “Then maybe I just like the game.”

You shake your head, grabbing your bag, but he steps aside to block your way — not enough to be bold, just enough to make your heart skip once.