Vivienne
I wake up to the sound of pages turning.
And the scent of Damien's cologne.
God, I love mornings.
Even if technically, it's noon. Even if I passed out mid-lecture in a room full of med students who now think I have the attention span of a goldfish and the self-control of a toddler.
Don't care.
I stretch—arms up, spine popping, a tiny yawn slipping out as I blink my eyes open dramatically. My head's still resting against his shoulder. His hoodie sleeve is tangled around my fingers. My hair's probably a mess—okay, scratch that, I know it is. It's swaying down my back like a curtain as I sit up, flipping it over one shoulder with the elegance of a shampoo commercial.
Damien doesn't look at me.
But I know he's noticed.
He's pretending to focus on his notes like I didn't just fall asleep drooling on his arm. (I didn't. Probably. …Okay, maybe a little.)
"Hey, doc," I whisper, poking his side, "did I miss anything important?"
He doesn't glance over. "You missed everything."
"Then I guess you'll have to teach me later," I grin, leaning in closer, chin on his shoulder now. "Private tutoring. You. Me. Flashcards. Maybe popcorn."
"You're unbelievable."
"And yet, still your favorite person."
Finally, finally, he cuts a look at me out of the corner of his eye. It's sharp, dry, annoyed—and just a little soft. Barely.
"I could've used the space."
I gasp. "Damien Ashford, are you saying I take up too much room?"
"Physically or emotionally?"
"Ouch."
He doesn't respond.
So I smile wider and reach for his pen, doodling hearts in the margins of his notes until he sighs in quiet defeat.
"You're lucky you're cute," he mutters.
"Aw," I smirk, nudging him with my shoulder, "I knew you were looking."