His name is Ethan. Every Ethan I knew in high school was a jackass, so the name already has a target on its back.
Footsteps. Male, unhurried, confident.
“Piper?” Warm baritone, edged with surprise.
I spin. It’s him—the diner guy, plant boy. Floppy strawberry-blond hair, with shoulders broad enough to shelve textbooks.
Objectively handsome in an ESPN-after-special way—but not my type. I go for skinny, quiet coder boys who forget to blink, not six-foot jocks with built-in fan clubs.
Still, my pulse hiccups. Traitorous biology.
“Seriously?” slips out.
He sets a cardboard drink tray beside me. His grin tilts, half sheepish, half amused.
“Nice to see you too,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me with that easy confidence jocks always have. I wonder if this guy is in a fraternity. “Brought you water. Figured basement coding requires hydration. Plus coffee, because I’m not a monster.”
I cross my arms. “You’re my tutor?”
“Try to contain your excitement.” He’s still grinning, as if this all is some cosmic joke. “Though I gotta say, your enthusiasm is really boosting my confidence here.”
“Sorry. I just... we’ve barely met. You probably don’t remember?—”
“I remember you, Piper.” Steady eye contact; my blood runs hot. “Greg remembers too.He’s thriving, by the way. Grew two new leaves. I think insulting me really motivated him.”
The grin is contagious; I catch myself almost smiling before I shut it down.
“Look, no offense, but I’m never going to need to know about three-act structure in data science. This is just a box I have to check for my scholarship. Can we just... get through this without me having to pretend I care about fictional characters’ emotional journeys?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m being honest. Isn’t that what stories are supposed to be about?”
“Touché.” He leans back, studying me with thoseannoyingly perceptive eyes. “So why take Creative Writing if you hate it so much?”
I stare at my laptop screen, fingers tightening around my coffee mug. “I was supposed to take Database Systems. But I was... busy. Distracted. By the time I registered, this was the only thing left that fulfilled my scholarship’s ‘creative expression’ requirement without conflicting with my CS core classes.”
“And if you fail?”
The question hangs between us, heavier than he probably realizes.
“I lose my scholarship. All of it.” The words come out bitter.
“So you missed registration because...?” He lets the question trail off, but I can see the curiosity in his eyes.
My walls slam back up. “Because I was dealing with stuff, okay? Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Hey, no judgment.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “We all have our stuff.” His voice is gentler now, less performative. “Look, I’m not here to psychoanalyze you or whatever. Professor Long paired us up; I need the tutoring credit, you need to pass. Simple transaction. Let’s both show up to get this done, yeah?”
I eye him suspiciously. “That’s it? No inspiring speeches about the power of storytelling?”
My last two tutors were insufferable. Preferring to stroke their own egos than actually help me pass this class.
“Would an inspiring speech help?”
“No.”
“Then nope.” He pulls out a notebook, all business now. “But I am going to need you to at least try. Not for the beauty of narrative or whatever—just so we both get what we need out of this.”
