Page 12

Hazel

My grip on my pen tightened as I glanced at the dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights on the table in front of me. The annotations in the margins blurred a testament to how long we’d been poring over the text. With a sigh, I shifted the notebook to the left, only to move it back a second later. It was a pointless gesture, but it gave my hands something to do as my frustration simmered beneath the surface.

Across from me, Campbell sat like he didn’t have a care in the world. He tilted his chair back, so the front legs barely touched the floor. He twirled a pencil between his fingers, his lazy, fluid motion contrasting with my stiff and methodical scribbling. Campbell was the embodiment of nonchalance, his hoodie hanging over his broad shoulders, the fabric stretched in a way that emphasized the breadth of his frame.

“You’re good at this, you know.” He said, his voice cutting through the silence.

I didn’t glance up.

“Good at what?”

“Keeping my attention.”

The corners of his mouth curled into that infuriatingly confident grin. My pen stopped mid-sentence, poised above the paper as my eyes flickered to his. I gave him a pointed look, my brows drawing together in confusion and skepticism.

“What are you talking about?”

“You,” he said, as though that explained everything. His grin widened as I huffed. “You’re cute when you get all serious. Analyzing away like Heathcliff’s moral complexity is the most important thing in the world.”

“Campbell,” I snapped, my tone sharp enough to cut through his amusement. “You’re failing this class. Maybe it’s time to take it seriously.”

“Oh, I am,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave, sending a shiver down my spine. His gaze flickered down to my lips for the briefest second before meeting my eyes again, a move so subtle yet deliberate it made my breath hitch. “Just maybe not the class.”

My cheeks burned, and I ducked my head, pretending to study my notes. I would not let him distract me when we’d spent half the session getting nowhere.

“Focus, Atwood.”

But he didn’t back off. Instead, the chair creaked as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His smirk softened into something quieter, more sincere.

“I’m serious, Hazel. You’re good at this. You’re patient. Explaining all this stuff. It makes sense when you do it.” He paused, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ll probably still fail, but at least I get to hang out with you while I try.”

My heart did a traitorous skip at the shift in his tone, but I squashed the feeling. I would not let him get into my head.

“If you listened instead of talking, you could pass.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Hit me with the next one.”

For a moment, I hesitated, my pen hovering over the notebook. There was something disarming about the way he looked at me, his usual bravado tempered by a flicker of genuine respect. It was unsettling. But I forced myself to shake it off, clearing my throat as I refocused on the text.

“Alright,” I said, my voice steady despite the faint flush lingering on my cheeks. “Let’s start with the themes of revenge and passion again. Maybe this time, it’ll stick.”

Campbell grinned, his confidence returning as he picked up his pencil.

“Lead the way, Sunshine. I’m all ears.”

I reached across the table, pointing at the scribbles in my notebook.

“You’re missing this part. See? Catherine’s obsession with Heathcliff isn’t just about love. It’s about control, and how she feels like she’s losing her identity.”

My fingers brushed his as I tapped the page, and the air between us shifted. It wasn’t the light-hearted banter we’d been sharing; it was heavier, charged with something I wasn’t ready to name. Campbell stilled, his eyes flickering to where our hands had touched before lifting to meet mine. His expression was unreadable, caught between amusement and something deeper. I froze too, my lips parting as our proximity hit me. I was the first to pull back, sitting upright with a nervous laugh as I tucked my hair behind my ear.

“Uh, anyway, like I was saying, Catherine’s identity revolves around Wuthering Heights, but she—”

“Your hands are soft.” Campbell interrupted; his tone soft but deliberate.

I blinked, thrown off by the abrupt statement.

“What?”

“Your hand,” he said, his voice casual even as his gaze sharpened. “It’s soft.”

My heart skipped, and I felt the heat creeping from my neck to my cheeks.

“That’s not relevant to the discussion.”

“No, but it’s interesting,” he countered, leaning back in his chair, his grin creeping back into place. “Do you always get that close when you’re tutoring someone? Or am I special?”

I groaned, grabbing my water bottle to buy myself a moment to compose my spiraling thoughts.

“Campbell, focus .”

But he wasn’t ready to let it go, His grin widened, the teasing gleam in his eyes unmistakable.

“It better be just me. Makes failing worth it.”

I scoffed and snatched the nearest pen and tossed it at him. It hit his chest with a soft thud. He laughed, a low, genuine sound that made my stomach flutter in a way I wish it wouldn’t.

“No one is failing.”

He smirked, twirling the pen between his fingers like he hadn’t just derailed our study session.

“Noted, Sunshine. Where were we? Something about Heathcliff being Catherine’s tragic soulmate?”

I couldn’t stop the small smile that broke through my frustration. For the rest of the session, I kept my hands on my side of the table, but the lingering warmth and the look in his eyes stayed with me.