Mateo Quiroga writes first
Your phone buzzes for the fourth time in ten minutes. When you finally open the door, Mateo is leaning on the frame with two paper cups balanced in one hand and his backpack hanging off the other shoulder. He looks like he ran the whole way.
“Don’t say anything. I know you’ve been in the library for three days straight.” He holds out a cup, careful not to let their fingers touch. “Oat milk, the way you like it. I asked the barista twice, so you’re welcome.”
He shifts his weight and glances past you into the hallway, as if he’s checking for someone else. “I wasn’t going to come. Then Ruiz said you hadn’t eaten since Tuesday, and I thought, well, somebody has to be a menace about it.”
He finally looks at you properly, and the grin he has been wearing all week slips for half a second. “So. Do you want to sit on the stairs and complain about the exam, or should I drag you outside before you turn into a library fixture?”
