She was early. By almost ten minutes, which meant the room was nearly empty—just a kid in the back wearing headphones and typing something on his phone, and Liam Gallagher, already in his seat, notebook open, pen in hand.
He looked up when she pushed the door open. His eyes had been on the door. On her.
Sofia's step faltered. Just a hitch, the kind no one would notice unless they were watching for it. She kept walking, because stopping would have been worse, and settled into the seat beside him.
"You're early," she said. Careful English. The words measured before they left her mouth.
He shrugged. "Didn't have anywhere else to be."
His voice was low. Quiet. The way it had been yesterday, like he was afraid of scaring her off. He didn't crack his knuckles. That felt deliberate, like he'd caught himself doing it and decided not to.
Sofia set her bag down on the floor. The projector was dark, the whiteboard clean except for a few ghost traces from the last class. The late afternoon sun cut through the venetian blinds, laying stripes of light and shadow across the worn linoleum and the back of his neck.
She watched the light catch his hair. Dirty blond, messy, falling across his forehead the way it had when he'd looked back at her in the hallway yesterday. The scar above his left eyebrow caught the light too—thin, old, healed pale against his skin.
She realized she was staring and looked down at her notebook.
"How was the rest of your day?" he asked.
Simple question. Normal question. But the way he said it, like he actually wanted to know, made her chest feel tight.
"Fine," she said. "Events of the week lecture. You?"
"Same." He paused. "Except I kept thinking about that limit problem."
"Which one?"
"The one you solved faster than me."
She felt heat climb her cheeks. "I didn't—you showed me the trick."
"You still solved it."
The silence that followed was different from the one before. Fuller. Like it held everything they weren't saying.
Sofia bit her lower lip. The habit. The nervous one. She felt his gaze land on her mouth the moment she did it—felt it like a physical weight, warm and present.
She didn't stop biting her lip. She held it, just a second longer than necessary, then let it go.
His eyes stayed on her mouth.
Her hand drifted toward the edge of the desk. The spot where his hand had rested yesterday. The wood was cool now, but she pressed her palm flat against it anyway, feeling the grain.
"You do that," he said.
"What?"
"Put your hand there."
She pulled it back. "Sorry. I didn't realize."
"Don't apologize." He shifted in his seat, turning toward her. His knee bumped the leg of her desk. Neither of them moved away. "I noticed it yesterday. After I left."
Sofia's throat went dry. "You noticed?"
"I looked back." He said it simply, like it was nothing. Like it didn't make her heart stutter. "Before the door closed. You were pressing your palm where my hand had been."
She couldn't speak. Couldn't find the English for this. Couldn't find the words in any language.
"I've been wanting to sit next to you for three weeks," he said. "Before you ever spoke to me. I watched you walk into this class every day and I wanted to say something, but I didn't know how."
"Three weeks?"
"Yeah." He cracked his knuckles finally, then winced like he'd caught himself. "Sorry. I know that's—that's a lot. I don't expect—"
"I broke up with my girlfriend in December," she said.
He went still.
"Long distance," she continued, because the words were coming now and she couldn't stop them. "She was in the Philippines. Where I'm from. She ended it because she said I was fading, waiting for something that wasn't coming. And I thought she was right. I thought maybe I was just—someone who waits. Who watches." She took a breath. "And then I saw you. Sitting in this class. And I wanted to say something for two weeks before I did."
He stared at her. Pale blue eyes, the exact shade of winter sky, holding hers like he was afraid she'd disappear if he looked away.
"Two weeks?" he said.
"Yes."
"So when I said I'd been wanting to sit next to you for three weeks—"
"That was a week before I even noticed you noticing me."
Something shifted in his face. A crack. That vulnerability she'd seen yesterday, the one that made her want to press closer instead of pulling back. "I thought I was imagining it," he said. "The way you looked at me. I thought I was making it up because I wanted it to be true."
"You weren't imagining it."
The headphones kid in the back laughed at something on his phone. The sound broke the bubble between them, but only for a second. Liam's hand moved—slow, deliberate, giving her time to pull away—and came to rest on the desk beside hers. His pinky was close enough to touch. He didn't close the distance.
"Can I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Can I hold your hand?"
She couldn't breathe. "Yes."
His fingers slid over hers. Gentle. Careful. His palm was warm and slightly calloused, and when he wrapped his hand around hers, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like his hand had been made to hold hers.
He exhaled. A long, shaky breath. "I've been wanting to do that for so long."
"Me too."
His thumb traced a slow arc across her knuckles. Once. Twice. She watched it move, hypnotized, feeling the heat radiate from the point of contact up her arm and into her chest.
"Are you free after this?" he asked.
She looked up. "I don't have anything."
"Can I walk you home?"
The question was quiet, almost shy, like he was afraid of the answer. She turned her hand over under his, interlacing their fingers, and felt his grip tighten.
"I'd like that," she said.
The classroom door opened. More students filed in, the sound of backpacks hitting the floor, voices overlapping. Professor Davison followed a minute later, setting down his coffee and flipping on the projector.
Liam didn't let go of her hand.
She didn't pull away.
They sat like that through the first ten minutes of class, fingers laced beneath the desk, hidden from everyone except each other. He traced shapes on her skin with his thumb. She pressed her leg against his under the table, just barely touching, and felt him press back.
The lecture was about derivatives. Applications of the chain rule. Sofia wrote down exactly none of it. She couldn't focus on anything except the warmth of his hand, the weight of his shoulder next to hers, the way his breath caught when she squeezed his fingers.
At some point, Professor Davison called on him.
"Mr. Gallagher. Can you walk us through problem seven?"
Liam's head snapped up. His hand tightened around hers, a brief squeeze before he released her to grab his notebook. "Uh. Yeah. One second."
She watched him scan the page, brow furrowed, and felt a smile tug at her mouth. He was cute when he was flustered. His hair fell forward. He pushed it back. He started explaining the derivative, voice steadying as he found the rhythm of it, and she watched his mouth form the words and thought about what it would feel like to kiss him.
He caught her watching when he finished.
His ears went red.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing.
The last thirty minutes of class passed in a blur. Every time his knee brushed hers. Every time his hand found hers under the desk. Every time she felt his eyes on her profile and turned to find him looking, and he didn't look away.
When the bell rang, neither of them moved.
The room emptied around them. Professor Davison erased the board, gathered his things, and left. The door clicked shut, and they were alone in the quiet, late-afternoon light.
Liam turned to face her. His knee bumped hers. He didn't apologize.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
The word sat between them. Just a greeting, but it carried everything else: the three weeks he'd watched her, the two weeks she'd watched him, the hand-holding, the confessions, the question of what happened next.
She leaned forward first. Or he did. She wasn't sure which. But there was a moment where the distance closed and she could smell him—soap and something clean, like cotton dried in the sun, underneath the faint salt of his skin—and then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was soft. Tentative. Like he was testing whether this was real. His lips brushed hers once, twice, and then she pressed closer and he made a sound low in his throat that she felt vibrate through her whole body.
His hand came up to her jaw, cradling her face like she was something precious. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, and she turned into his palm, into him, and kissed him deeper.
Her fingers found the edge of his desk, gripped it. His other hand settled on her waist, warm and sure, and the kiss was the only thing in the world that mattered—the slide of his lips, the way his breath hitched when she opened her mouth against his, the taste of him, clean and faintly like mint.
He pulled back first. Just far enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, and his breathing was uneven.
"I've wanted to do that since the first day you sat here," he said. His voice was rough. Barely above a whisper.
She pressed her forehead against his. "Then I'm glad I finally said something."
"Me too."
She could feel his heartbeat. Or maybe it was hers. She couldn't tell anymore, and it didn't matter.
"Walk me home?" she asked.
He smiled. A real smile, small and private, like it was just for her. "Yeah. Let me grab my bag."
She watched him stand, watched the way he moved—easy, unself-conscious, his gray hoodie riding up to show a strip of skin at his lower back before he tugged it down. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and held out his hand.
She took it.
They walked out of the classroom together, fingers laced, and the late sun hit them full in the face when they stepped into the hallway. Sofia squinted. Liam didn't seem to notice. He was looking at her, and she was looking at him, and the world outside the bubble of their joined hands felt very far away.