Chapter 4 Control Variables （Kieran）
CONTROL VARIABLES (KIERAN)
If Wren Marin isn’t in class, she’s in the library.
Not a guess. A read. Same way I read a breakout before it happens.
I’m used to a certain rhythm when it comes to girls: a look, a smile, a spark that hits back fast. Wren Marin doesn’t do any of it. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t fluster. Doesn’t adjust. She corrects my math and walks away, leaving my brain to circle the empty space.
I can usually read people in a heartbeat—that’s my edge. She gives me nothing to play with. Silence where applause should be. My skin hates it.
So yeah. I’m irritated. And curious. And it’s way too early in the day for both.
I take the path behind the library and spot Theo by the café entrance.
Glasses, messy hair, broad shoulders he doesn’t bother selling. A guy who doesn’t perform and somehow gets noticed anyway.
I’ve seen how Wren tracks him—quiet, hungry, precise. Like her decision’s already in ink and my name wasn’t even on the ballot.
Isabelle is talking at him, practically preening—laugh all breath and eyelashes, body angled in, hair arranged just so. It’s the version she uses when she’s hunting.
Theo looks…cornered. Not exactly flustered. Just politely uncomfortable, like he’s waiting for an exit to appear. He shifts, and his jacket pulls tight across his shoulders.
Solid. Trained.
That doesn’t track. I’ve never seen him in the gym. Whatever built that body happened somewhere else, on a different schedule, with no audience.
And that might be my problem.
Before I can process the dissonance, he spots me.
“Oh—hey.” His whole posture loosens, relief softening the line of his posture. “Good to see you, man. Looking forward to working on the project with you and Wren.” He says it warmly, genuinely, like rivalry isn’t even part of his internal vocabulary.
I clap his arm. Solid. Easy. The kind of contact that makes it annoying how immediately likable he is.
“Yeah,” I say. “Same. See you in class.”
He jogs down the steps, hair bouncing, already gone.
I watch Isabelle watch him like she’d like to set fire to the sidewalk under his feet.
For the first time, it occurs to me that this would be a lot easier if Theo were an asshole.
“Didn’t think engineers were your flavor,” I say flatly. “Figured you leaned more…existentialist.”
Her mouth tips at the corner. Not quite a smile. “Tastes evolve.” Her gaze lingers on Theo a beat longer, then slides back to me. “But our agreement is still intact.”
Something shifted. Isabelle doesn’t reassure unless she’s already clocked a change.
“You’re taking your academics very seriously these days,” she continues. “New priorities. New partners.”
It’s delivered lightly. It isn’t.
I don’t like that she noticed. I like even less that she’s right.
“Maybe it’s time,” I say.
She exhales—almost a laugh. “Then I hope you’re prepared for what that attracts.”
I step closer, catching her perfume under the cold morning air. “Shouldn’t you be haunting the premed building instead of tracking engineering majors?”
Her expression slows, deliberate. “I like to know where attention goes.” Her eyes flick over me—not appraising, exactly. Measuring. “Yours included.”
“I told you I’m handling it.”
Her satisfaction arrives quietly, almost gentle. Sharper for it.
“Good,” she says. “I’d hate to think I misjudged you.”
She touches my cheek with the back of her fingers. Cool. Brief. Claiming.
“Don’t make me regret backing the wrong variable.”
Then she turns and leaves, already certain the equation will resolve in her favor.
And that’s when I see Wren in the café line. Second from the counter. Backpack strap snug on one shoulder, notes in hand. She doesn’t look my way—not because she’s oblivious, but because she doesn’t need to. She’s not scanning the room. She’s planted in it.
She orders black coffee. No sugar. No cream. Then she waits: still, balanced, ready. The kind of stance you hold when motion is coming and you don’t fear it.
My brother Liam would call that presence.
I call it impossible to look away from.
I step up and mirror her order. Black coffee. Not my usual. I’m a red-eye guy. But today I take it her way and see how it hits.
She turns. Moves. Clean lines, no hesitation. I time it so we meet halfway to the door.
“Guess I picked the right line.”
She studies me the way she studied Feldman’s equation. All structure. No projection. No interest in the shape I’m trying to cast.
“You following me now?”
“Coincidence,” I lie. “Or fate. Depends on your worldview.”
“Statistically unlikely.”
“Statistically interesting. We’re partners now,” I add. “Figured I’d get a head start.”
“In coffee or calculus?”
“Both.” I lift my cup. “Maybe you can tutor me.”
“No.”
“Didn’t even think about it.”
“I don’t need to.”
Straight answers. Clean cuts. No performance.
Her pulse flickers at her throat. Small. Quick. Precise. My brain logs it without permission.
“One hour twice a week,” I say. “You set the rules. I’ll pay. And not in hockey tickets.”
She doesn’t blink. “Of course you’d pay. Or did you think girls should pay you for the privilege of being in your orbit?”
The hit lands low. Too accurate.
She shifts her cup and walks. “Good luck, O’Connor.”
“Hey,” I call. “You didn’t even let me make my case.”
“I don’t need to.” She doesn’t look back. “You talk too loud. It turns the air orange.”
I freeze on that.
Orange?
Before I can ask what the hell she means, she disappears through the library doors. I catch my reflection in the café window, smiling like an idiot, once again left circling the space she vacated.
And for once, I don’t care who sees.