Maybe it can be.
Maybe not today.
But someday.
The rest of my day is classes and noise and pretending I know what I’m doing.
In my afternoon lecture, the professor talks about neural pathways and behavioral reinforcement, and I keep thinking about how my brain reinforces fear like it’s a hobby.
In the hallway after, I almost run into Weston. He’s walking backward, talking loudly, gesturing like he’s performing.
“And I’m just saying, if Coach thinks I’m going to stop chirping, he can?—”
He sees me and grins so wide it’s almost alarming.
“HARLOW!”
I flinch—and he immediately lowers his volume, like he clocks it.
“Sorry,” he says, still smiling but quieter. “You okay?”
I blink. Weston Cooper—human chaos—just adjusted for me. What universe is this?
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, then correct myself because Dr. Reed would call me out. “I’m…okay.”
Weston nods like that’s a perfectly acceptable answer. “Good. Because I have a very important question.”
I brace. “No.”
Weston’s grin goes feral. “Do you hate me yet?”
I stare at him.
Then I say the honest thing. “Not yet.”
Weston clutches his heart. “A miracle.”
He leans in a little. “Bennett says you’re terrifying.”
My brows lift. “He said that?”
Weston nods enthusiastically. “Respectfully. Like ‘she could end me, and I’d apologize.’”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“That’s not—” I stop. “Weston, you lie.”
Weston gasps, offended. “I embellish. There’s a difference.”
I shake my head and step past him. Weston falls into step beside me like a golden retriever who decided we’re friends now.
“Rink Friday evening?” he asks. “Some of us do quiet laps before the world starts yelling.”
My stomach flips.
“Why?” I ask.
Weston shrugs. “Because skating is cool. And because Mercer hovers less when you have plans.”
