It hits me suddenly that I would probably spend an embarrassing amount of effort trying to make her laugh like that again.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” she says, glancing away from the road just long enough to catch my eye.
The smile lingering on her mouth almost knocks coherent thought clean out of me.
“I wish I were.”
“Oh my God.” She laughs again, softer this time. “You really are a giant nerd.”
“I prefer ‘academic.’”
“No, no.” She shakes her head, smiling. “Academic was gone the second you admitted you reorganized books recreationally.”
“It was objectively more efficient.”
“You say things like that and then wonder why I call you Professor.”
I grin despite myself. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It’s not.” Her voice shifts , quieter now. “Honestly, it’s kind of…”
She trails off.
I look over at her. “Kind of what?”
Lila keeps her eyes on the road for a second too long before answering.
“Cute,” she mutters finally, like the word physically pains her to say.
Heat blooms instantly beneath my ribs. Lila notices immediately.
“Oh my God,” she says, delighted. “You’re blushing again.”
“I am not.”
“Jonah, your entire face just changed color.”
I drag a hand down my face while she grins triumphantly beside me. This should not feel this good. Getting teased by her should not make me feel like my bloodstream has been replaced with static electricity. And yet every time she looks at me like this—warm and amused and just a little too aware of me—I feel something inside me loosen that’s been locked down for years.
Lila glances at me again, smile softening .
“You know,” she says quietly, “I think I like you better when you stop trying so hard to sound composed all the time.”
The confession lands harder than flirting somehow. Because the way she says it feels honest. Like she’s not talking about the jokes anymore. Before I can figure out what to do with that, she smirks suddenly and adds, “Still judging the Dewey Decimal thing, though.”
I laugh helplessly, shaking my head.
And the sound of her joining in again feels a little too much like danger in the best possible way.
Max lets out another thunderous snore from the backseat, as if adding his opinion to our conversation. The sound reminds me of the responsibility I've just taken on—a living, breathing creature that depends on me now, however temporarily.
“You were right earlier. I have no idea what I'm doing with him,” I confess, gesturing toward the sleeping dog. “I don't even know what he eats.”
“So you’ve really never owned a pet before?”
“Correct.”
“Not even a hamster?”
