She exhales, looking down at our joined hands. “I don’t want to intrude.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Intrude? Mads, you grew up at my house. My mom is gonna have a meltdown if you don’t come.”
She hesitates, like she’s still trying to find an excuse.
So, I step a little closer, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Come with me,” I say again, softer this time. “We can eat too much food,watch football, and argue over who gets the last piece of pie. Just like old times.”
She lets out a small, breathy laugh. “You always get the last piece of pie.”
I smirk. “Exactly. Nothing’s changed.”
She looks up at me, something unreadable in her gaze before finally sighing. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Good,” I murmur, grinning. “Because you really didn’t have a choice.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way she smiles just before our names are called.
I grab our drinks, handing hers over before grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the door.
Sitting through another math lecture is about as exciting as watching paint dry, but Madison makes it bearable.
She taps her pen against her notebook, occasionally scowling at her notes like they personally offended her. I nudge her foot with mine, smirking when she glares at me.
When she gets her quiz back with a C+, she groans dramatically, slumping in her chair. “I hate math.”
I lean over, bumping my shoulder against hers. “Hey, that’s an improvement.”
She scowls. I chuckle under my breath before scribbling something on the corner of her paper.
She glances down, eyes narrowing as she reads:Proud of you, Mads. Even if you still suck.
She rolls her eyes, shoving my arm. “You’re the worst.”
I just smirk.
A second later, she rips a corner off her notebook page and scribbles something down before sliding it across my desk.
I unfold it.
If I ever have to use the quadratic formula in real life, I quit.
I shake my head, biting back a grin as I jot down my response.
Guess you’ll just have to marry rich.
I slide it back. She reads it, rolls her eyes, then writes something else and flicks it toward me.
Nah. Maybe I’ll just find a smart, super hot football player to tutor me for the rest of my life.
I arch a brow, tapping my pen against the desk before scrawling back:
Sounds exhausting. Is he at least getting paid in kisses?
She snorts, scribbling something down.
Please. You’d do it for free.
My lips twitch.She’s not wrong.
