I’m not controlling the game anymore.
And I have no idea how to stop what I’ve started.
13
TUTORING AT TWO (WREN)
The problem with running experiments is pretending you don’t care about the results.
Twenty-four hours ago, Kieran O’Connor kissed my cheek and made the whole campus gossip. Now I’m standing at his front door, my pulse trying to break out of my chest.
By the time I knock, I’ve gone through multiple mental simulations of how this is supposed to go.
“Come in,” he calls, easy, confident.
The house smells of lemon cleaner cut with the faint tang of drying hockey gear. It’s unsettlingly domestic. Sunlight slants through tall windows onto gleaming floors. Someone definitely cleaned before I got here.
Kieran appears—barefoot, damp hair pushed back, gray sweats slung low. He looks as freshly scrubbed as the house behind him, and my brain commits treason by noticing every detail.
“Rules,” he says, that dangerous grin flickering. “Right on time.”
“Timeliness is a requirement for tutoring.” I hold up my notebook for proof.
“Right. Tutoring.” He steps aside with a mock-gentlemanly sweep.
I toe off my sneakers and follow him into a living room that’s aggressively masculine—oversized TV swallowing one wall, game consoles stacked like trophies, two hulking leather sofas that look indestructible. Despite the testosterone, it’s oddly tidy—books spread across the table, pencils arranged in constellations.
He gestures toward the sofa. I hesitate.
“Should I be worried about what’s lived on those cushions?”
His mouth curves. “We disinfected. Twice.”
“Define disinfected.”
“Soap. Vacuum. A priest.” He drops beside me, way too close. “You’re safe, Rules.”
Being alone with him feels different from the library or the quad. No public buffer, no easy exit. Only him, me, and a couch that feels small despite its size. Heat radiates off him; the clean scent of soap cuts through my thoughts. My cheek still tingles where his lips brushed it yesterday.
This is about Theo, I remind myself. Transactional. Hundred dollars an hour, groceries, Larisa’s birthday gift. Not this fluttering mess in my chest.
I’m still catching my breath when the kitchen door swings open and noise spills out. Voices, clatter, laughter are painting the air in messy orange streaks. Then Kieran’s voice slices clean through, sharp teal that steadies at the edges.
“Keep it down. We’re studying.”
A beat of silence. Then— “You bringing her in or what, O’Connor?”
Kieran exhales once. “You might as well meet them now.”
He leads me into the kitchen, and I immediately understand why he hesitated.
Three guys turn to look at me with the kind of coordinated interest that feels rehearsed. A phone gets set down. A spatula pauses mid-flip. The one with the knife doesn’t even pretend to keep chopping.
“Gentlemen,” Kieran says tightly. “This is Wren. My girlfriend. My tutor too. As the whole campus knows already.”
The one with the phone looks me up and down with a grin that’s all performance. “So you’re the girlfriend.” His eyes cut to Kieran, not me. “Gotta say, man, you undersold it.”
He’s talking about me like I’m not here. Like I’m a car Kieran test-drove.
