The day starts with my alarm going off two minutes before my brain registers that I exist.
I wake up tangled in sheets, one sock on, mouth dry, and eyes burning like I watched sad edits on TikTok all night—which, to be fair, I did.
The morning light filters through my curtains like it's trying to be cinematic, but it just makes me squint and groan.
Downstairs, I can hear Mom talking on the phone and something sizzling on the stove. The house smells like fried eggs and stress.
I shuffle into the kitchen in my usual hoodie-and-flannel combo. I don't make eye contact with anyone. It's a survival tactic.
Then I see him.
Alex.
Tank top. Damp hair. Just finishing his glass of water like this is his house and not a war zone I've barely made peace with.
I immediately wish I'd stayed in bed.
"You're up early," he says, voice scratchy from sleep and annoyingly attractive.
I don't look at him. "School exists. Tragically."
He sets the glass down. "Want me to drive you?"
I freeze mid-toast-spread. "You don't even wake up before noon."
He shrugs. "I'm awake now."
"I'd rather walk."
"Suit yourself." He smirks and walks away, towel slung over his shoulder like we're in some beach movie.
"Do you ever take a bath, or do you just wet your hair and carry a towel around, cause I have never heard the shower running during the periods you could be taking a bath?"
"Who knows?" He says with a smirk as he walks off
I stare at my toast and wonder if it's possible to be allergic to someone's existence.
At school, Camila's waiting by my locker like she's about to serve subpoenas.
"You didn't text me last night."
"I was tired."
"Liar," she says, following me like a tiny chaos goblin. "You were avoiding. Spill. Something happened."
"Nothing happened."
"Something happened," she insists. "Your hoodie sleeves are doing the sad-boy grip. That only happens when your crush breathes too close."
I sigh and slam my locker shut. "He offered to drive me to school."
She gasps like I just told her he proposed.
"And you said...?"
"I said no!"
"Why?"
"Because I'm not trying to die of mixed signals at 8 a.m., Camila."
We walk to class. She's grinning the entire time.
After school, I make it home before anyone else, which feels like a win until I remember I have a history project due Friday and my brain is in shambles.
I set my bag down at the dining table and start spreading out notes. My laptop screen stares at me like it knows I'm stalling.
Footsteps. I don't even have to look up this time.
Alex walks in, drying his hands on a dishtowel, sleeves pushed up, tattoos peeking out.
I look back down at my notes. "I swear if you're here to ask if I want a ride to the store or something,"
"What're you working on?"
"History. Revolution project."
He tilts his head. "Need help?"
I blink at him.
He pulls out the chair across from me like he's already decided for me. "I did that project senior year. Got an A. I'm a reliable source."
"Okay, but you also once tried to make microwave popcorn without removing the plastic."
"One time," he says, mock offended. "And it was a weird bag."
I don't say yes.
But I don't say no either.
Fifteen minutes later, we're both hunched over my laptop. Alex keeps making little comments—half helpful, half annoying.
"You spelled 'uprising' like 'up-prising.' You trying to start a dance crew?"
"Shut up."
He leans in to point something out, and his shoulder brushes mine. He doesn't flinch. I pretend I don't either.
"Why are you even helping?" I ask finally.
He pauses. "You looked stressed. Figured I could be useful."
"Are you always this helpful to the little brother of your best friend?"
He smirks without looking up. "Only the cute ones."
My stomach does a backflip. I don't respond.
By the time we wrap up, it's dark outside. Mom's back, Lucas isn't home, and the kitchen smells like something frozen and slightly burnt.
Alex stretches, his shirt riding up a little, and my brain goes static.
"You've got most of it down," he says. "You write the rest, send it to me. I'll proof it."
"You offering tutoring services now?"
He grins. "Maybe. You gonna pay me?"
I give him a look. "With what? Emotional damage?"
He walks away chuckling, tapping the side of my chair on his way out like it's just some casual thing.
My hands are still on the keyboard.
I haven't typed a single thing in fifteen minutes.