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The corner of her mouth almost lifts. Almost.

* * *

At exactly five, Bea shuts the textbook with a snap.

“Same time next week?” she says.

“Same time next week.”

“Bring the final review packet. I emailed the link. Read pages one through six before we meet.”

“Got it.”

“And do the practice problems on page seven.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t be late.”

“I won’t, Doc.”

She’s loading her bag, all of it sliding into a folder. She clocked out of this conversation forty seconds ago.

I stand.

“Hey,” I say.

She looks up.

“Thanks, by the way.” I gesture vaguely toward the room. Her brows furrow in confusion. “You know? For helping me back at the start of the year. The hiding-a-grown-man-under-a-desk situation.”

She slings her bag over her shoulder.

“I remember,” she says carefully. “You owe me one favor.”

Her tongue sweeps over her lower lip.

Deliberate or not, my body reacts like she’s given me a personal invitation. I picture leaning across the gap, catching that lip between my teeth and finding out whether Bea Walker ever loses control.

She walks past me and out of the lab, close enough that I catch the clean, faint scent of her shampoo.

I pick up my bag, go home, and complete every practice problem on page seven without stopping.

It’s almost ten when I finish. I check the answers once. Then twice. Then rewrite the two that don’t look quite right.

Because, apparently, passing isn’t enough anymore.

I want to prove you wrong, Beatrix Walker.

Chapter Nine

Bea

Blood-typing day in the intro lab means forty freshmen, forty lancets, and forty little wells of anti-A and anti-B serum. I’ve assisted on this practical four times now, and the casualty rate is remarkably stable: one faint per session, usually within the first ten minutes.

Today it’s bench three. A girl named Lucie pricks her finger, looks at the bead of blood, says oh in a very small voice, and folds.

Luckily, I get to her before she hits the floor. She’s out for eight seconds, and then she’s back, blinking up at a ring of classmates, two of whom already have their phones out. I glare at them until they put them away. Seriously, what is wrong with people who see someone struggling and their first instinct is to hit record?