Across the room, her phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

She reached for it, expecting April's usual barrage of memes or a last-minute panic about tomorrow's lecture. Instead, the notification preview made her pause.

Ezra Callahan.

She should reply. Tell him thanks. Maybe make a joke about procrastinating until the last minute.

But before she could even unlock her phone, another message appeared.

Photo attached.

And Y/N's brain short-circuited.

The photo wasn't of notes.

It was Ezra. In bed. Shirtless. Dark hair slightly mussed against a pillow, sharp hazel eyes half-lidded like he'd just woken up or was about to fall asleep. The photo was angled down his torso, capturing the broad span of his shoulders, the defined curve of his chest, and a sharp, deeply carved six-pack that looked almost sculpted.

There was no baggy hoodie. No loose T-shirt. Just skin, muscle, and the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants.

Y/N couldn't breathe.

Her phone clattered. Her hand flew to her mouth. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt it in her throat.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

She was still staring at the screen, frozen, when the next message came through.

The typing bubble appeared again, and a new message slid onto the screen.