Riley picks up his fork, sets it down, picks it up again. He won’t meet anyone’s eyes.
The energy in the room has shifted completely. They’re being careful. Like they just realized something important and wish they hadn’t.
“More chicken?” Mason offers, voice too gentle.
“I’mgood.”
He nods, backing off immediately. Then his eyes flick to Kieran—sharp, weighted, almost accusatory. Kieran’s jaw tightens, controlled. A warning.
Some silent conversation passes between them, something I’m not privy to.
Riley breaks the silence, voice uncharacteristically flat. “Game tonight. You coming?”
I glance at Kieran. We didn’t cover this in our fake dating rule book.
“Uh—”
“She’s coming,” Kieran says, calm as a lock sliding into place. “Right, babe?”
The endearment lands like a stone in still water. Mason’s hand tightens on his spatula. Dax’s counter-wiping stops mid-swipe. Riley looks away fast.
“Sure,” I say, confused. “Wouldn’t miss witnessing…skating.”
No one laughs. The swagger that filled the room minutes ago has completely evaporated.
“Let me help clean up,” I offer, reaching for my plate.
“No!” Riley says it too fast, too sharp. Then, softer, “Guest rules. You just…sit. We’ve got it.”
Kieran’s fingers curl around mine. “Study hall,” he says quietly.
The kitchen falls into uncomfortable silence. No one argues or makes a parting joke. No one meets my eyes as we leave.
“So that was weird,” I say, dropping onto the sofa.
Kieran settles beside me—close, always too close. “They’re hockey players. Weird is baseline.” A flicker crosses his expression, gone before I can name it. “Probably just surprised. I don’t usually bring girls here.”
“Oh.” I pull my notebook from my bag, needing something to do with my hands. “Lucky me, I guess.”
“Yeah.” His voice roughens. “Lucky you.”
I look up. His stare knocks the air from my lungs; the space between us feels one breath from catching fire.
He leans back, grin reforming. “So. Shall we justify your hourly rate?”
“Please.” I flip to the assignment sheet. “Did you finish Feldman’s exercises?”
He hands over a page of neat handwriting. I scan it.
I don’t recognize the structure. It’s not how Feldman taught it. He rebuilt the problem from the inside out.
“Actually…this is all correct.”
“Was that a compliment from Rules?”
“Yes, and your last one. Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.” That grin again. “Already planning the victory parade.”
