Saint Dirty Face

Midnight. The house is silent, but my desk looks like a warzone—textbooks piled, coffee cups breeding like rabbits, highlighters bleeding across every page.

And then there’s Lisa Wong.

The exchange student who somehow treats my room like it’s hers. The same girl who claimed my bed the first night now sits cross-legged at the desk, leaning way too close, pointing at formulas like I’m the one who signed up for this class.

“Pay attention,” she says, her silver top catching the desk lamp like it’s a spotlight.

“To the book, or to you?” I ask.

She doesn’t even flinch. Just grins, that mischievous grin that says she’s enjoying this way too much.

Her shoulder brushes mine. Her foot nudges me under the desk. Not accidents—never accidents. She’s daring me without saying it, pushing the line between sweet study buddy and troublemaker in disguise.

“You know,” I say, “most people use tutors. Not… exchange students with territorial issues.”

“Tutors are boring,” she fires back. “I make learning fun.”

And she does. That’s the problem. Every joke, every bump of her knee, every time she tilts her head and looks at me like she knows the answer already—it all lights something up I’m not supposed to notice.

The dare isn’t spoken, but it’s loud. It’s in her laugh when she catches me staring. It’s in the way she leans in so close I can smell her shampoo. It’s in the way she doesn’t move back, not even a fraction.

And here’s the kicker:

I don’t move either.

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Saint Dirty Face™

Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious™

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