“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice is low. Rough around the edges.
“Walking back to my dorm?”
“Coralie, it’s late. In Waikiki. On a Saturday night. And you’re—” His gaze drags across me. My face. My oversized hoodie. My bare legs. His jaw tightens like he’s clenching down on the next sentence.
“Just. Trouble. Please get in.”
Trouble?
Everything in me wants to push back. To say I don’t need rescuing. To snap something sharp enough to match the look on his face. But his tone isn’t bossy. It’s not even angry.
It’s… worried.
And for reasons I don’t have the processing power to unpack right now, that makes all the difference.
So I nod, swallow my pride, and round the truck to the passenger side without another word.
We drive in silence at first. The interior of his vehicle is just as precise and intentional as he is. A rolled-up charger in the console, a metal water bottle in the cupholder, the faint scent of eucalyptus and something warmer, like cedar or cardamom. Clean. Uncluttered. Not a single thing out of place—except maybe me, curled into the passenger seat, unsure of what to do with the way his knuckles are whitening on the wheel.
I shift slightly, bite the inside of my cheek, then ask, “Why did you come after me?”
He doesn’t look over. Just keeps his eyes trained on the road when he says, “I went back to the fire. Theo told me you were walking home alone.”
Ah. Theo. So that’s whose kneecaps I’m targeting tomorrow.
“I would’ve been fine,” I say. He doesn’t respond. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve stayed. You’ll miss the bonfire.”
“I don’t care about the bonfire.” A beat. Then: “Which dorm?”
“Johnson Hall.”
He nods, makes the turn onto Dole, and the silence stretches again. Everything about him is tense. His shoulders, his jaw, the way he exhales like every breath is something he’s working through.
When he finally pulls up, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t cut the engine. He leans back in his seat, head tilted against the headrest, then turns to me—and just like that, I forget how to breathe.
In the dark, he’s all shadows and soft lines. Hoodie, dark eyes, tired mouth. The kind of face that pulls you in and keeps you there.
Which is exactly whyIget out of the truck.
Only—he does too. Of course he does.
He rounds the hood and stops at the side, leaning against the frame like he has all the time in the world. Arms folded. Ankles crossed. That posture that says nothing gets to him, even though I know better now.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He nods toward the front entrance. “Making sure you get in okay.”
The door’s maybe ten meters away. If that.
I cross my arms. “Why did you really pick me up?”
“I told you. It’s not?—”
“Yeah, it’s not safe. I heard that already. And I don’t believe that’s true, by the way.” I step a little closer. My pulse quickens. “But why doyoucare?”
His eyes meet mine, something complicated behind them.
“Don’t say it’s because you’re my TA.”
