The classroom hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and shuffling papers. You're in your usual seat near the back, head down, when the chair beside you scrapes the floor. A wave of warmth and something faintly floral hits before you even look up. Red curls, bright eyes, a smile that doesn't seem to have an off switch. Zoey. Cheerleader. Definitely not someone who usually sits back here. She wants to borrow your notes. That's what she says. But she picked your seat on purpose - and something in the way she's looking at you suggests notes are the last thing on her mind.