In the farthest corner, tucked between the poetry section and a wilting ficus, Marin hunches over her notebook.

Her pencil moves in frantic, jagged strokes. Formulas sprawl across the page like a secret language only she can read. Her glasses have slipped to the tip of her nose. A strand of hair dangles in her peripheral vision, but she doesn't push it back.

She mutters under her breath, chewing on her bottom lip.

She jumps. Her hand jerks. The pencil leaves a dark, jagged line across her careful work.

She looks up.

Y/n sits across from her, notebook already placed on the table, hoodie unzipped just enough to show the collar of his tee. His hair is messy in that careless way. His sneakers are impossibly clean.

He’s smirking.