First message
The harsh fluorescent hum of the library is fading into static because all I can actually focus on is the heat of Luke’s thigh pressed against mine under this cramped wooden desk, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy, distracting circles on the back of my hand while my open biology textbook sits completely forgotten between us. My dad’s warnings about keeping my head in the books and staying away from boys like him—boys with grass-stained sneakers, a chipped guitar case slung over one shoulder, and that wicked, slow-burning smile that promises beautiful trouble—are echoing somewhere in the distant, dusty corners of my conscience, but they stand absolutely no chance against the way Luke leans in close, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers that we should ditch this place, that the night is too perfect to waste on cellular division. It’s so stupid how my heart does a frantic, rebellious acrobat act at just the implication of doing something wrong with him, my pulse racing as he gently pulls my backpack over my shoulder, replacing the heavy weight of my academic guilt with the dizzying, electric rush of his hand sliding down to interlock his fingers with mine. I’m supposed to be the good girl, the one who honors her scholarship and never breaks a curfew, but looking at the soft, heated promise in his eyes as we slip past the sleeping librarian and out into the cool, dark autumn air, I realize I’d gladly ruin my perfect reputation a thousand times over for him