I step closer, catching her perfume under the cold morning air. “Shouldn’t you be haunting the premed building instead of tracking engineering majors?”
Her expression slows, deliberate. “I like to know where attention goes.” Her eyes flick over me—not appraising, exactly. Measuring.“Yours included.”
“I told you I’m handling it.”
Her satisfaction arrives quietly, almost gentle. Sharper for it.
“Good,” she says. “I’d hate to think I misjudged you.”
She touches my cheek with the back of her fingers. Cool. Brief. Claiming.
“Don’t make me regret backing the wrong variable.”
Then she turns and leaves, already certain the equation will resolve in her favor.
And that’s when I see Wren in the café line. Second from the counter. Backpack strap snug on one shoulder, notes in hand. She doesn’t look my way—not because she’s oblivious, but because she doesn’t need to. She’s not scanning the room. She’s planted in it.
She orders black coffee. No sugar. No cream. Then she waits: still, balanced, ready. The kind of stance you hold when motion is coming and you don’t fear it.
My brother Liam would call that presence.
I call it impossible to look away from.
I step up and mirror her order. Black coffee. Not my usual. I’m a red-eye guy. But today I take it her way and see how it hits.
She turns. Moves. Clean lines, no hesitation. I time it so we meet halfway to the door.
“Guess I picked the right line.”
She studies me the way she studied Feldman’s equation. All structure. No projection. No interest in the shape I’m trying to cast.
“You following me now?”
“Coincidence,” I lie. “Or fate. Depends on your worldview.”
“Statistically unlikely.”
“Statistically interesting. We’re partners now,” I add. “Figured I’d get a head start.”
“In coffee or calculus?”
“Both.” I lift my cup. “Maybe you can tutor me.”
“No.”
“Didn’t even think about it.”
“I don’t need to.”
Straight answers. Clean cuts. No performance.
Her pulse flickers at her throat. Small. Quick. Precise. My brain logs it without permission.
“One hour twice a week,” I say. “You set the rules. I’ll pay. And not in hockey tickets.”
She doesn’t blink. “Of course you’d pay. Or did you think girls should pay you for the privilege of being in your orbit?”
The hit lands low. Too accurate.
