“Are you serious right now?”
“Very.” But her smile is wicked, teasing. “I'm a responsible student, remember?”
“You can't be serious,” I groan, still trying to catch my breath. “After what you just did?”
“What?” She blinks innocently, though the effect is somewhat ruined by her kiss-swollen lips and the flush spreading across her cheeks. “I'm just being a good student. Prioritizing academics.”
I tuck myself back into my boxers and pull up my jeans, trying to regain some dignity. “Two can play at this game, Renner.”
“I look forward to seeing you try.” She retrieves herglasses from the table, sliding them back on with deliberate slowness. “But for now, Byzantine fault tolerance awaits.”
I catch her wrist before she can move away, pulling her back against me. “Not so fast.” I growl.
Her breath hitches as I back her against the whiteboard, reversing our positions. “Ethan?—”
“My turn,” I whisper against her ear, enjoying the shiver that runs through her. “Fair's fair.”
“But the essay?—”
“Can wait.” I slide my hand under her hoodie, feeling the warm skin of her stomach. “I'm suddenly very motivated to study something else.”
She laughs, but it turns into a gasp when my fingers trace the underside of her breast. “That's—that's not on the syllabus.”
“Extra credit,” I murmur.
26
PIPER
Saturday afternoon at Dora's is always hectic, but today felt especially long. Eight hours of refilling coffee, dodging Marco's mood swings, and pretending I don't notice when customers leave shitty tips. My feet ache, my hair smells like fryer oil, and all I want is to collapse on my couch and maybe text Ethan.
God, when did I become someone who misses a person after two days?
Thursday's tutoring session keeps replaying in my mind. The way he made me reclaim that bench. How he listened without judgment when I half-confessed about Miles. The promise of patience in his eyes.
And how I almost told him about the review.
I've been running through scenarios all shift. What if I'd actually said it? “I'm ButterBoi69.” He would have been hurt, maybe angry, but we could have worked through it, right?
Except his showcase is in three weeks. The senior presentation that determines his final grade, his portfolio, his entire future in game design. He's been stressed about it formonths, barely sleeping, running on energy drinks and anxiety. His dad's been breathing down his neck about having a “backup plan.”
Telling him now that I'm the reviewer who gave him two stars would destroy his confidence right before the most important presentation of his life. He'd spend the next three weeks spiraling, doubting his work, maybe even changing things that don't need changing because he'd think I secretly hate his game.
No. I'll tell him after the showcase. When the pressure's off, when his grade is secure, when he's gotten the validation he deserves from professors and industry people. Then, we can deal with this truth without it affecting his future.
It's the kind thing to do, really. The protective thing.
You're such a fucking coward, a voice in my head whispers.You're just afraid he'll leave you.
But that's not it. Or not entirely. I genuinely don't want to sabotage his success. He's worked too hard, come too far. What kind of person would I be if I dropped this bomb on him now?
The kind who's honest, the voice replies. The kind he asked you to be.
I check my phone as I leave the diner. Nothing since his “good morning, happy Saturday” text at 9 AM. It's now 4:30.
Not that I'm counting.
I trudge home, overthinking every possible reason for radio silence. Maybe he's busy working on his presentation. Maybe he's with friends. Maybe he's already bored of me now that the chase is over.
