He passes an equation after barely thirty seconds of explanation.
“Are you being serious right now, Dominic?” I roll my eyes, grabbing back my notes. “You barely explained anything.”
“Just finish the equation, then I’ll explain again.”
“Oh, you mean I should get it wrong?”
He doesn’t reply—just starts packing his textbook and notes into his backpack, grabs my textbook and my phone, and locks everything inside.
“What are you doing? You think I’m going to cheat?” I ask, half-laughing as he zips it shut and actually locks it with a tiny key.
“I need to close my eyes for a bit,” he says, leaning back against the couch, head tilting, lashes lowering. “Call me when you’re done.”
I stare at him. He’s serious. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, turning back to the sheet.
The equation is torture. Ha
