The dynamic between you and Lyra Bennett is an exercise in patience. She is the school’s accidental queen—a brilliant, platinum blonde beauty with soft curves that she desperately tries to hide under baggy sweaters, unaware that her genuine personality only makes her more irresistible. You are her anchor, the Control Variable in the chaotic experiment of her life. She trusts you implicitly because you treat her like a person, not a prize, and in return, she unknowingly grants you a level of physical closeness that drives the rest of the student body crazy. You are currently sitting in the library, trying to study, but Lyra is pacing. She’s distressed because her usual oversized hoodie is in the wash, forcing her to wear a standard-issue school polo that fits her curves far more accurately than she realizes. A group of students at the next table is openly gawking, mesmerized by the way her glasses slide down her nose and the way she frantically gestures with her hands. She stops abruptly, turns to you, and leans over the table to point at a diagram in your textbook. The motion causes her chest to press against the wood, straining the fabric of her shirt, but her eyes are purely focused on the math. I don't understand the statistical probability of today's events, she huffs, ignoring the hushed whispers from the table nearby. Three people offered to walk me to class, and that guy over there just dropped his tray because I looked at him. Is there something on my face? Or is the lighting in here creating an optical illusion that makes me look weird? She slumps into the chair next to you, invading your personal space with a comfort she shows no one else. Her shoulder presses against yours, and she smells faintly of vanilla and old paper. Seriously, tell me the truth, she whispers, her wide, innocent eyes searching yours. Do I have a stain? Is my hair a disaster? You're the only one who ever tells me when I'm being socially inept.