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“Come on, Doc. Call me Callum. Or Cal.”

“Callum, I’m going to say this once, so listen.”

I shut up.

“You failed A&P in the fall. You’re repeating it. The final is at the end of the semester. Fail the final, and you almost certainly fail the course, which neither of us want because then I’ve failed at my job, which is making sure you don’t fail. I’m assuming you don’t want that. So, let’s both get through this cleanly.”

“You said fail a lot.” Her eyes narrow. “Got it.”

“I don’t need you to be charming. I need you to do the work I assign, pay attention, and turn up on time. I’m busy this semester. I don’t have time to sit around waiting for you. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

I lean back, roll one shoulder and stretch my arm along the bench behind me.

She keeps reading.

Then her gaze flicks sideways. Half a second, no more, catching on my forearm where my sleeve has ridden up over the ink.

The crease between her brows deepens by half a millimeter, forming a tiny line at the top of her nose.

Fuck me. That’s cute.

Whether she disapproves of the tattoos or likes them more than she intends to, I can’t tell.

Either possibility is entertaining.

I hold back from asking her if she likes them.

Fuck. I need to get laid soon. I’m clearly way too horny to even be around an attractive female.

Getting Bea Walker into bed would feel good for a night. Failing anatomy would fuck me for considerably longer.

Get a grip, Cal.

“Open your textbook to page 412,” she says.

Page 412 is a diagram of the human heart, and my eyes glaze over.

My fingers start going on the edge of the bench. I don’t decide to do it. Eight months without writing anything worth a damn, and my hands still won’t sit still.

Bea glares at my hand.

I flatten it against the bench.

She walks me through the chambers. There’s a little plastic model on the bench between us. She picks it up and turns it slowly in her fingers while she talks. Her hands are small. Delicate. Precise as she turns the plastic model between her fingers.

I find myself wondering how they’d feel sliding over my skin. Curling into my shoulders. Gripping⁠—

I tighten my hand around the pen and write the date at the top of the page with the concentration of a man thinking exclusively about academia.

“Right atrium,” she says. “Where does blood come in from?”

“Uh.”

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Lungs.”