Chapter Four
Jace
Thursday hits differently than yesterday.
Not because I woke up with inspiration or optimism or any of that motivational bullshit people claim to experience. It hits different because I know I have an excuse to see her today.
Bells.
It’s enough to make me show up early again, even though I keep telling myself I don’t give a shit. Even though I keep pretending this is just tutoring. Just school. Just something to get Ms. Mallory off my back.
I’m already in the library when she walks in. The clock on the wall ticks toward four, every second loud in the quiet. I’ve got one foot hooked around the leg of the chair, posture relaxed, shoulders loose, acting like I didn’t check the time twice in the last five minutes.
She walks toward the table, and for a moment, the rest of the library fades out.
Bells is beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you.
Brown curls spilling down her back, long and wild, pulled into the same messy ponytail she always wears.
Baggy jeans hanging low on her hips, worn soft.
She doesn’t need those tight ones to get my attention.
She never has. My body reacts on instinct, cock tightening a fraction, and I hate that she does this to me without even trying.
She’s wearing that soft sweater she likes, sleeves pushed up. Same nerdy black glasses perched on her nose.
I stare at her for a beat too long, because every time I forget how fucking dangerous she is to me, she shows up and reminds me.
I swallow and force myself to lean back, to keep my posture loose, to act like my pulse didn’t just kick up a notch.
She comes in with that big ass tote bag slung over her shoulder, the thing practically swallowing her whole. It thumps against her hip as she reaches the table, and drops into the chair across from me with a long exhale, as if she’s been holding her breath all day.
“Okay,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I came prepared this time.”
I raise a brow, watching her start unloading things from the bag.
Notebooks first. Thick ones with tabs sticking out at odd angles. Next comes the sticky notes, an absurd number of them. Yellow, pink, blue. Flashcards held together with a small metal ring, already bent from use. Then the food comes out.
A granola bar first. Practical. On brand. Another packet of Oreos, which makes my mouth twitch before I can stop it. She digs a little deeper and pulls out a pack of Sour Patch Kids.
The good ones. The ones I like.
“You bribing me now, Bells?” I ask.
She shoots me a smile—that gentle one that I fucking love.
She laughs under her breath, shaking her head as she lines everything up neatly. Her fingers move with purpose. She’s in her element now, and it shows.
I watch her longer than I should, noticing the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
She glances up and catches me staring.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just… impressed.”
She smiles again, gentler this time, and damn if it doesn’t hit me right in the chest.
“Alright,” she says, tapping the table once, all business-like. “Let’s get started before you distract me.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure you’re the distracting one here, Bells.”
She rolls her eyes but keeps smiling as she slides a flashcard toward me.
I feel that familiar twist of nerves low in my gut. Last time fucked with my head more than I let on. Reading out loud always has that effect.
It’s not that I can’t read. I can. Mostly.
Enough to fake it if I have to. It’s that the words don’t stay where they’re supposed to.
They slide around. Swap places. Trip over each other as if they’re doing it on purpose just to fuck with me.
And the second I have to say them out loud, it all goes to shit, because there’s always someone watching.
Waiting. Counting the seconds until I fuck up.
That’s usually the moment when my jaw locks and my temper flares.
But this is Bells.
She saw it all last time—the hesitation, the pauses, everything. The way I stall, deflect, and joke instead of admitting I’m lost. She noticed it without making a big deal out of it.
And she didn’t look at me with pity, irritation, or that tight, disappointed teacher smile that says they’ve already written you off.
She adjusted quietly, casually, switching things up as if it were no big deal, like I’m not stupid, or wasting her time.
She opens the Sour Patch Kids and places them in the middle of the table. I grab a handful and chew as she begins calmly explaining what we’re doing today.
She slides a few pages toward me, and I notice right away. Short passages, larger font, bullet points instead of paragraphs, wider spacing, less clutter. It’s a version she printed for me.
She didn’t have to do any of this.
No one ever has before.
I glance up and watch her. It’s the glasses. They do something to her, framing her face in a way that makes her eyes stand out. Blue. Clear. Sharp as hell. She sees everything and still chooses what matters. Her nose has that slight curve, enough to give her character. Not perfect, but real.
And her mouth. Fuck. Her mouth.
I tear my eyes away before I do something stupid, but the thought lingers anyway. I keep wondering what her lips would taste like. Sweet. Soft. Or if it would completely wreck me. I’ve been with plenty of girls. I know how bodies work and I know exactly what my cock can do.
But I’ve never kissed anyone before. Never wanted to. Not once.
Until now.
She continues talking, tapping the page with her pen, explaining it as if it’s no big deal.
I nod when I should. Pop another Sour Patch Kid into my mouth. Pretend my chest isn’t tight and my pulse isn’t racing.
This shouldn’t be an issue. But it is and I get the sinking feeling that Bells is about to change a lot more than my grades.
“Jace.”
I blink hard, as if she just snapped a rubber band against my brain.
She’s looking at me over the top of her glasses, lips pressed together, fighting a smile she’s definitely losing. That alone should be illegal.
“Focus,” she says. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I ask.
“Staring,” she replies. “And no, it’s not subtle.”
I lean back in my chair, stretch my arms as if I’m bored. “Maybe I just like your face.”
She snorts before she can stop herself, shakes her head, and taps the page with her pen. “Liar. Now read.”
I grin anyway because there it is: that rhythm, that ease. The way she doesn’t flinch from me or play dumb. She always pushes back, steady and sure.
I glance down at the paper, still smiling to myself.
Fuck.
If focusing means not looking at her, this is going to be a long hour.
I sigh and run my hands down my face, before I rest my elbows on the table and stare at the page. The words still wobble a little and shift if I stare too long. But it’s easier this time. Manageable. I take it slow.
I stumble once.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
I keep going.
She doesn’t rush me, jump in, or correct me. She waits, eyes on the page instead of my face.
About twenty minutes in, her phone vibrates on the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet.
An unknown number lights up the screen.
She bites her lip and glances up at me.
“Go ahead,” I say. “I can survive thirty seconds without you.”
One corner of her mouth lifts as she grabs her phone. She responds, voice soft. “Hello?”
Someone a few tables away lets out an exaggerated hiss. “Shh.”
I turn in my chair before I even think about it. “Mind your own fucking business.”
The guy blinks in surprise, then averts his gaze, suddenly very engrossed in his laptop.
This gets the Librarian’s attention. She glances at me from behind her desk and I hold her gaze. I don’t flinch. I let her see exactly how little I care.
She looks away first.
Lola stands, phone pressed to her ear, as she steps a few paces toward the shelves. Far enough to gain some privacy, yet close enough for me to see her. I notice her shoulders tense as she listens, her whole posture stiffening. Her face loses its color.
“Yes,” she says quietly into the phone. “Yes, I understand.”
Her free hand curls into the sleeve of her sweater, fingers tightening around the fabric. Her eyes shine, glassy and too bright, and I see a tear slide down her cheek.
Fuck.
Something inside me snaps tightly—sharp, protective, and angry in a way I don’t know how to handle.
I’m out of my chair before I realize it, feet moving instinctively.
I stop just short of her, every muscle tense, because touching her feels like a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
My hand hovers there anyway, useless, aching to wipe that tear away, to do something besides stand here watching her hurt.
She blinks quickly, brushing her fingers across her cheek as if she’s embarrassed, I noticed.
I lower my voice. “Bells.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” she says, her voice too calm, too controlled. Then she ends the call.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“What’s wrong?” I say softly.
She shakes her head, eyes shining. “Nothing. I just… I need to go.”
Bullshit.
She moves quickly. Too quickly. Books are shoved carelessly into her bag. Papers crumple. Pens clatter. Her hands shake so badly she drops a highlighter without noticing. This chaos is messy and disorderly, nothing like the girl who lines things up and color codes her life.
I grab her wrist.
“Stop,” I say, voice rough and scraped raw. “Stop and fucking tell me what’s wrong.”
She becomes still under my hand.
For a moment, I think she’s going to pull away, rip herself free, and shut me out like everyone else does. My grip loosens instinctively because the last thing I want is to scare her.
She doesn’t move.
Her breath stutters once.
Then she breaks.
“My dad,” she chokes. “He’s in the hospital. He collapsed at work and they think he had a stroke.”