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Millie was mid–info dump.
Which meant she was pacing.
“And statistically speaking,” Millie said, pushing her glasses up for the fourth time in two minutes, “social hierarchies in competitive environments tend to mirror academic microcosms, except amplified by scarcity of resources and—”
She stopped. Blinked.
Because Priya was staring at her.
Not in a confused way. Not even in a polite way.
In a soft way.
Millie’s brain stalled like an old laptop trying to load too many tabs.
“Are you… following?” she asked, voice dropping an octave from nerves.
Priya nodded immediately. Too immediately.
“Obviously,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “You were saying people revert to instinct when they feel threatened.”
Millie’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes. Exactly. Because when—”
A shadow fell over them.
Chase. Smirking. Of course.
“Wow,” he said, looking between them. “You’re really patient with her.”
The words landed wrong.
Millie froze mid-sentence. The familiar, awful heat crawled up her neck. She hated when people said that. Like she was something to tolerate. Like she required endurance.
Priya’s posture changed instantly.
Patient?
That word scraped against her pride like sandpaper.
“I’m not patient,” Priya said, a little too sharp.
Chase raised a brow. “Sure.”
“I’m not,” she repeated, competitive spark igniting. “I just—”
She stopped.
Because she didn’t have a rehearsed line for this. No training montage had prepared her for defending feelings she hadn’t even named yet.
Chase shrugged and wandered off, bored.
Silence settled.
Millie stared at the dock planks. “It’s fine,” she muttered. “People say that a lot.”
Priya’s jaw tightened. “They’re wrong.”
Millie glanced up, confused. “About what?”
Priya shifted closer without really thinking about it. Not enough to touch. Just enough that the space felt smaller.
“I’m not patient,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t sit through things I don’t want to.”
Millie blinked. “You sit through my rants.”
“They’re not rants.”
“…They are statistically structured monologues.”
Priya huffed a laugh despite herself.
Then she looked directly at Millie, and for once there was no competition in her expression. No strategy. Just honesty, raw and slightly terrifying.
“I like your voice,” Priya said.
Millie’s brain fully blue-screened.
“You— what?”
“I like it,” Priya repeated, cheeks flushing but refusing to back down. “When you get excited, it changes. It gets faster. And you do this thing with your hands.” She mimicked a tiny fluttering motion. “It’s cute.”
Millie made a small, mortified noise. “Cute?”
“Yeah.” Priya swallowed. “I’m not being patient. I’m listening because I want to.”
The world felt very small. Just dock wood, lake water, and the hum of distant cicadas.
Millie’s fingers twisted in her sleeve. “You don’t have to say that just because he—”
“I’m competitive,” Priya interrupted gently. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t bother.”
That landed.
Millie processed it the way she processed everything. Quietly. Carefully.
“You’re saying… you enjoy when I talk.”
“I’m saying,” Priya replied, voice softer than it had ever been in any challenge, “I look forward to it.”
Millie’s face went crimson. Not subtle. Not survivable.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Priya leaned back again, pretending she hadn’t just emotionally vaulted off a cliff. “So. Continue your statistically structured monologue.”
Millie stared at her for a long moment.
Then, very shyly, “You really don’t mind?”
Priya smiled. Not her confident smirk. Not her competitive grin.
Something gentler.
“Millie,” she said, “I could listen to you explain the sociological impact of cafeteria seating for hours.”
Millie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“…Okay,” she said, adjusting her glasses again. “Well. As I was saying.”
She started pacing once more, but this time she was closer. Close enough that her hand brushed Priya’s shoulder when she gestured too wide.
Neither of them moved away.
And when Millie’s voice sped up with excitement, Priya didn’t interrupt.
She just listened.