A group of girls by the nearest bench definitely aren’t subtle. One nudges another, eyes flicking between us, then down to her phone. Wren moves a fraction closer. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough that her sleeve brushes mine.
The noise around us sharpens—less generic chatter, more pointed energy.
She tilts her face up, eyes bright. “So,” she says lightly, “CEO O’Connor.”
I huff a laugh. “Don’t start.”
“Feldman practically knighted you,” she says. “I’m just acknowledging the promotion.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I say.
“Immensely.”
I slow, then stop in the middle of the path and turn to face her. People detour around us; a few slow down to stare. I don’t care.
“All right,” I say, eyes on hers. “If you’re going to call me CEO in public, I’m going to start acting like it.” I let my gaze dip to her mouth, then back up. “If it increases productivity.”
She arches a brow. “Is this how you talk to your co-founder?”
I hold her eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
She studies me for a beat—the way she does right before committing to an answer. Then she nods once. “Yeah.”
Something tight and unfamiliar settles in my chest. Not fear. Not regret. Just the quiet awareness that I didn’t correct her.
We keep walking, hand in hand.
There’s a visible ripple through the crowd. Phones come out. Conversations pause. This isn’t Kieran O’Connor with another girl. This is Kieran O’Connorand the tutor. The rumor, upgraded to canon.
“Guess we just broke the internet,” I murmur.
“Luckily it’s a closed campus network,” she says, smiling now. “Contained failure mode.”
A couple of my teammates spot us from across the quad. Dalton gives a wolf whistle and Riley claps his hands over his heart. I flip them off without letting go of her.
For half a second, it feels easy. Like this is just how things are now.
We pass the café, its windows fogged, fairy lights tangled around the frames.
That’s when I see Isabelle.
Tucked into a corner table. Posture perfect. Expression arranged in that curated, bored-princess way. Watching us like she already knows exactly what this is going to cost me.
There’s a guy with her, black turtleneck, wire-rim glasses, broad chest. The brooding-intellectual type who speaks four languages, bench presses for aesthetics and quotes Camus between sets. Her usual prey.
But she’s not looking at him.
She’s looking at us. At our joined hands.
Her lips curve—slow, sharp. Calculating. Like she’s three moves ahead in a game I just started playing.
I squeeze Wren’s hand a little tighter and keep walking.
The café door swings open. Isabelle steps out, treating the quad as her personal runway, camel coat sharp, sunglasses perched on her head.
Her eyes skim our joined hands, then lift to my face.
And stop.
