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I walk in like I own the building and drop onto the bench across from her with a sigh.

“Sorry I’m late, Doc.”

“I’m not a doctor. I’m just pre-med.”

“Sorry I’m late, future Doc.”

She looks at me. First time.

Christ. Those eyes.

Dark brown, flecked with gold. I remember them. I’ve written four songs about women’s eyes. Hers make every one of them seem irrelevant. I’d start a fifth right now if my hands still remembered how to write anything worth hearing.

“Sit down,” she says.

I’m already sitting, but something in her tone makes me straighten.

Interesting.

I don’t usually take orders this well unless they’re whispered into my ear.

“Did you bring your fall final?”

“I did not bring my fall final. I looked. I really did. I think I left it at⁠—”

She slides a sheet of paper across the bench.

“I printed it from the registrar.”

“Oh.”

“I assumed you wouldn’t have it.”

“That’s a little insulting, but correct.”

“Mm.”

I remembered it being bad. Somewhere over winter break, my brain had generously revised it into a respectable high fifty.

Forty-seven is the number circled at the top of the page.

Jesus Christ.

“Excellent,” I say, putting the full force of my confidence behind it. “Plenty of room for a dramatic comeback.”

She raises a brow. “If you say so.”

When she shifts, her braid slips over one shoulder, exposing the long, bare line of her neck.

My attention follows it before I can stop myself.

I clear my throat and force my eyes back to the paper.

Cardiac muscle. Right. Very appropriate.

“Soooo—”

“Mr. Fox.”