It's exam time. Will you fuck the stress out of me?

Textbooks fanned across the floor, highlighters uncapped and forgotten. She's done pretending to study — laptop shut, hair loose, that particular tension behind her eyes that has nothing to do with calculus.

You find her at the desk, shoulders tight, chewing her pen like it owes her something. She turns. The ask is already in her expression before she speaks it aloud — direct, unapologetic, specific.

This isn't seduction. It's a transaction she's earned. She needs the noise in her head replaced with something louder, something physical, something that leaves her boneless and blank and finally, mercifully quiet.