Chapter 10 Social Engineering 101
Iget there early, stake out a two-top by the windows with two coffees and my laptop. Black, no sugar—the way I saw her take it. Notes arranged in casual piles that took longer to arrange than I want to admit.
Footsteps. Coat swish.
She appears from between the stacks—dark hair scraped into a knot, cheeks pink from the walk over, wool scarf she tucks down as she scans for me.
My chest tightens before I remember I’m supposed to look casual.
She does that little blink when she finds what she’s looking for, and something in me loses its edge.
“Hey,” I say, tipping my chin.
“Hi.” She’s composed but not cold—the kind of polite you reserve for lab partners and clients. Her gaze drops to the coffee and catches. “You stay true to your word.” There’s a ghost of a smile, and my balance goes with it.
She lifts the cup and takes a slow sip, eyes shutting for half a second. When they open, there’s surprise there—pleasure, gratitude, something softer.
Heat slides through me, quick and stupid.
Don’t.
“You remembered,” she says quietly.
“I pay attention.” I hold her gaze.
Color floods her neck, and she looks down, hiding behind her hair. But I saw it—that flash of being seen that makes her both nervous and pleased.
“Thank you.” She sets her backpack down, untangles her scarf, and sits. Cold air and clean shampoo cut through me—simple, deadly.
She opens her laptop. “We have an hour.” She places her phone on the desk, starts a timer with a soft vibration I feel through the table. “Let’s make it count.”
“Trust me, I plan to.”
A corner of her mouth almost moves. Almost.
“Want to start with your project?” she says, tapping my notebook. “I peeked at it last week. You seemed frustrated.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and turn the screen her way. “I’m trying to figure out why some releases come off my stick like lightning and others die halfway. I’m tracking what the puck does and what my body does at the same time, then lining them up to see what actually makes the magic.”
“And the problem?”
“They won’t match. It’s like watching two dancers on different songs. Each looks fine alone, but when I put them together, it falls apart.”
She studies the screen, brow furrowed. Then she leans closer, one hand on the trackpad. “Stop making them dance to the same rhythm. Let the puck lead and make the camera follow. If you keep them fighting for control, you’ll never get a clean read.”
It’s probably ten layers more complicated than that—numbers, algorithms, timing calibrations—but the way she says it suddenly makes perfect sense.
She rewrites a few lines of code, quick and sure, her focus sharp enough to cut through steel. The messy lines smooth into one graceful curve.
“Holy—” I bite it off, grinning instead. “There it is.”
She doesn’t glow or bask. She just exhales, satisfied. “You were measuring acceleration twice. This forces the camera to be the time base.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Heads turn two tables over. “You just saved me from rewriting three weeks of work.”
Her eyes lift to mine like I’ve surprised her. “You actually care about this.”
“That a problem?”
“No.” Her shoulders loosen. “Just…unexpected. I thought maybe this was a—” She makes a small, efficient gesture. “A stunt.”
She means a stunt to get her here, alone, with me. She’s not wrong. She’s also not right anymore.
“I like building things,” I say simply. “Skating’s the obvious part. This is the part that makes my brain quiet.”
She studies the graph once more, then closes the laptop with a decisive pat, satisfied.
“Okay. Torque fixed, calibration stabilized.” She flips open the 204 worksheet, draws a clean line down the page: Assumptions. Known. Unknown. Method. So neat it makes my ribs feel aligned. “Problem set?”
We work through it—she doesn’t do it for me, just points and waits while I run the numbers. When I reach for shortcuts that’ll bite later, she nudges. “State your assumptions.” I do. She catches a sloppy exponent, lets me fix it without commentary. Somehow that feels better than praise.
The timer hits forty minutes. She caps her pen, lines everything up neat and parallel. “We’ve still got time. Want to go over next week’s reading?”
I could. I should. That’s what I’m paying her for.
But what I actually want is more of her—her attention, her focus, the way she looks at me when I surprise her.
“Actually,” I lean back, voice dropping, “there’s something else we should discuss.”
She knows I’m pivoting before I pivot. Her eyes narrow. “What’s that?”
“Call it a lab.” I stretch my legs under the table and feel the brush of her boot, light as a thought. She doesn’t move away. “You taught my code to stop tripping over itself. Fair’s fair—I said I’d return the favor.”
She looks skeptical and curious, which for Wren is the same as a yes. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you how to change the data people see.”
She blinks slowly. “The social engineering part you advertised?”
“Yes. It’s all about optics.” I lift a shoulder. “Humans are lazy pattern-seekers. You put two variables together enough times—same table, same walk, same laugh—people assume correlation.”
“And?”
“You want Theo to see you differently.” His name pulls focus. “So we make it impossible not to. You and me—close enough for anyone to get ideas. He notices, and the story writes itself.”
Her breath catches, not a gasp, just a small stutter you only hear if you’re listening. And I am listening.
“That’s manipulative,” she says quietly.
“It’s effective.”
She studies me like I’m a circuit with too many branches. She doesn’t frown. She just thinks. I wait because it means she’s not walking away.
Finally: “What’s in it for you, O’Connor? Because you don’t strike me as the type who volunteers for extra credit.”
I shrug, easy. “Maybe I just want to make sure you keep tutoring me.”
That look—the one that could strip paint. Try again.
“Fine.” I lean back. “I need people to think I’m taken.
Girls throwing themselves at me—it’s exhausting.
Distracting. My coach has been on my ass about focus and appearing stable helps.
A lot.” I hold her gaze. “You’re not the kind of distraction that’ll cost me games.
You help me look settled, they back off. Everyone wins.”
She studies me for a long beat. “That’s...actually believable.”
“Because it’s true.” Mostly. The rest—the part where I want her attention more than I want air—I keep to myself.
She’s quiet, thinking. Weighing variables.
“Tomorrow’s our project meeting,” she says finally. “With Theo.”
“Perfect timing.” I keep my voice even. “First performance. See how it plays.”
Her fingers tighten on her pen. “If we do this...” She pauses, choosing words carefully. “If we do this, and Theo doesn’t...if it doesn’t work—”
“It’ll work.”
“But if it doesn’t,” she continues, “you don’t get to make fun of me for it. And you don’t get to tell people. No locker room stories, no bragging rights.”
The request lands like a fist to the gut.
She’s protecting herself—from me, from humiliation, from being a punchline. And she has every reason to, because that’s exactly how this started. A bet. A dare. Locker room entertainment.
Guilt crawls up my throat, bitter and sharp.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say quietly, and I mean it. Whatever this started as, it’s not that anymore. “I promise.”
She searches my face, then nods once. “If we’re doing this, there are rules.”
“Music to my ears.” I lean back just far enough to look relaxed. “Lay them on me.”
“No kissing.” Quick, like ripping off tape.
I make a face. “That’s...restrictive.”
“That’s a hard rule.”
“You realize it weakens the illusion.”
“It’ll be fine. You’ll live.”
She means she’ll live without kissing me. I could push, and God knows I want to, but the way her pupils flare when she says it—the way her shoulders tense, then drop—tells me enough. Panic mixed with curiosity.
Back off for now.
“Fine.” I let a slow grin pull. “We keep it PG.” I pause. “I should walk you back after we meet up.”
“Okay. That’s easy optics.”
“Holding hands,” I add.
She tips her head, pretending to think. “When someone might see.”
“Obviously. What’s the point if nobody does?”
Her lips curve—playful, mischievous, that impossible dimple flashing. I want to bottle it. “Will you carry my backpack too?”
A laugh slips out. “What are boyfriends for if not hauling the heavy stuff? Do I get a kiss if I do well?” I tease.
“Keep dreaming,” she deadpans. “Also, a warning...my books are heavy.”
“Please. I peaked in middle-school romance. Nothing says ‘claimed and useful’ like manual labor.” I flex my bicep. “Make sure the rumor mill clocks the forearms, Marin. Critical for the data set.”
She laughs briefly, bright and helpless, and it hits low in my stomach. Her face turns serious just as quickly. I can almost see her weighing variables: risk versus reward, truth versus performance.
“Okay,” she says finally, swallowing hard. “We have a deal.”
I want to say something reckless. Have dinner with me. Stay longer.
I bite it down.
“Don’t gloat if it works,” she says, tugging on her coat. Her fingers miss the sleeve on the first try. Without thinking, I catch the fabric, guiding her arm through.
She goes very still.
I’m suddenly aware of how close I am. Close enough to smell her shampoo, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin. My hand lingers on her shoulder, just a second longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” she says, voice quiet.
“Anytime.” I step back, but something’s shifted. The air feels heavier.
When she reaches for her backpack, I beat her to it, slinging it over one shoulder. “Part of the service.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Of course.”
We head for the door, and when we step into the stairwell, I take her hand.
She startles, just slightly, then her fingers relax and curl into mine. Warm. Small. Fitting better than they should.
“Optics,” I murmur.
“Right.” She doesn’t let go, and neither do I.
She stays close, her sleeve brushing mine with every step. Her thumb traces my knuckles absently. Tiny, unconscious, devastating. I tighten my grip before she can pull away. Because I don’t want to let go yet.
Outside, the campus is gold-edged. She tucks her hair behind her ear, cheeks pink from the wind, and my attention drops—traitorously—to her mouth. I imagine warmth there. Soft. The faint taste of mint and coffee. I shut it down just as fast.
We start toward her dorm. Heads turn as we pass. A couple of teammates, a few girls from her program. The whisper starts before we’ve cleared the quad. Her hand twitches in mine like she’s second-guessing, and I tighten my hold.
“It’s fine,” I remind her, low enough for only her.
She exhales, nodding. Her thumb keeps that slow rhythm against my knuckles.
We’re halfway to her building when the air shifts. Sharp perfume, colder than the wind.
Isabelle.
She’s leaning against the stone railing by the quad path, phone in hand, expression pure amusement. “Well,” she says, gaze flicking from our joined hands to Wren’s face, “isn’t this...surprising?”
Wren blinks, confused but polite. “Hi,” she says uncertainly.
Isabelle’s smile sharpens. “Hi. You must be the tutor.”
I feel Wren’s hand tense in mine, her spine straighten—professional, polite, defensive.
“Girlfriend,” I correct, my voice even. “Wren’s my girlfriend.”
The word comes out too easily. Too naturally. Like I’ve been waiting to say it for days.
For a second, Isabelle’s smile freezes. Then it melts into something sharper. “Right. My mistake.”
She takes her time looking between us, gaze lingering on our joined hands. “See you around, O’Connor,” she says sweetly, and her heels click away like breaking ice.
The silence that follows is thick. Wren looks up at me, confused, color rising in her cheeks. “She one of the girls you’re avoiding?”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. “Yeah. She is.”
We walk the rest of the way without talking, her hand still in mine; smaller, warmer, realer than it’s supposed to be.
When we reach her building, she pulls free gently, tucking her hands in her pockets. “So. Isabelle seemed...intense.”
“She’s always intense.” I adjust her backpack on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about her.”
“I’m not worried.” But her eyes say she’s filing this away, adding it to whatever equation she’s building about me.
I hand over her backpack. Our fingers brush, and neither of us pulls away as fast as we should.
“Tomorrow then,” she says. “Project meeting with Theo. Two o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.” The word girlfriend still tastes too good in my mouth. That’s a problem.
I want to kiss my girlfriend.
My gaze drops to her mouth—soft, parted, pink from the cold—and for half a second I imagine it: the heat of her, the way she’d inhale before she let me in. I feel it everywhere.
Foolish. One move like that, and I’d watch the walls snap back into place. I don’t risk it.
“Same time on Friday for tutoring?”
“Same time.” I want to say more—want to ask if the fake part felt as real to her as it did to me. “See you in class, girlfriend.”
The word makes her blush. She ducks her head, hiding that smile I’m learning to chase. “Goodnight, O’Connor.”
“Kieran,” I remind her. “Girlfriends use first names.”
“Goodnight, Kieran.”
The sound of my name from her mouth lands low and slow, like something claimed. It steadies me—and wrecks me at the same time.
She disappears into the building, and I stand there like an idiot, watching the door long after it closes.
For a second, I forget we’re pretending.
My phone buzzes.
ISABELLE
Well played, mon chéri. I have to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you. She’s eating out of your hand already
My stomach turns. Another text.
ISABELLE
I look forward to you coming to collect your prize. Don’t keep me waiting too long—watching you work has been the most entertaining part of my semester
I stare at the screen, jaw clenched.
That moment when I called her my girlfriend? When her hand fit perfectly in mine? When I forgot to let go even after the show was over?
That didn’t feel like part of a plan.
I don’t respond to Isabelle’s text and head back across campus, but the words stick.
Collect your prize.
Tomorrow, Theo will see us together for the first time. The fake dating goes live. The performance starts for real.
And somewhere between holding her hand and calling her mine, I stopped acting.
Which means I’m in way deeper trouble than I planned for.