Chapter 13
TUTORING AT TWO (WREN)
The problem with running experiments is pretending you don’t care about the results.
Twenty-four hours ago, Kieran O’Connor kissed my cheek and made the whole campus gossip. Now I’m standing at his front door, my pulse trying to break out of my chest.
By the time I knock, I’ve gone through multiple mental simulations of how this is supposed to go.
“Come in,” he calls, easy, confident.
The house smells of lemon cleaner cut with the faint tang of drying hockey gear. It’s unsettlingly domestic. Sunlight slants through tall windows onto gleaming floors. Someone definitely cleaned before I got here.
Kieran appears—barefoot, damp hair pushed back, gray sweats slung low. He looks as freshly scrubbed as the house behind him, and my brain commits treason by noticing every detail.
“Rules,” he says, that dangerous grin flickering. “Right on time.”
“Timeliness is a requirement for tutoring.” I hold up my notebook for proof.
“Right. Tutoring.” He steps aside with a mock-gentlemanly sweep.
I toe off my sneakers and follow him into a living room that’s aggressively masculine—oversized TV swallowing one wall, game consoles stacked like trophies, two hulking leather sofas that look indestructible.
Despite the testosterone, it’s oddly tidy—books spread across the table, pencils arranged in constellations.
He gestures toward the sofa. I hesitate.
“Should I be worried about what’s lived on those cushions?”
His mouth curves. “We disinfected. Twice.”
“Define disinfected.”
“Soap. Vacuum. A priest.” He drops beside me, way too close. “You’re safe, Rules.”
Being alone with him feels different from the library or the quad. No public buffer, no easy exit. Only him, me, and a couch that feels small despite its size. Heat radiates off him; the clean scent of soap cuts through my thoughts. My cheek still tingles where his lips brushed it yesterday.
This is about Theo, I remind myself. Transactional. Hundred dollars an hour, groceries, Larisa’s birthday gift. Not this fluttering mess in my chest.
I’m still catching my breath when the kitchen door swings open and noise spills out. Voices, clatter, laughter are painting the air in messy orange streaks. Then Kieran’s voice slices clean through, sharp teal that steadies at the edges.
“Keep it down. We’re studying.”
A beat of silence. Then— “You bringing her in or what, O’Connor?”
Kieran exhales once. “You might as well meet them now.”
He leads me into the kitchen, and I immediately understand why he hesitated.
Three guys turn to look at me with the kind of coordinated interest that feels rehearsed. A phone gets set down. A spatula pauses mid-flip. The one with the knife doesn’t even pretend to keep chopping.
“Gentlemen,” Kieran says tightly. “This is Wren. My girlfriend. My tutor too. As the whole campus knows already.”
The one with the phone looks me up and down with a grin that’s all performance. “So you’re the girlfriend.” His eyes cut to Kieran, not me. “Gotta say, man, you undersold it.”
He’s talking about me like I’m not here. Like I’m a car Kieran test-drove.
“Riley,” Kieran says, flat.
“What? Just saying she’s—” Riley’s grin widens. “Smart. Obviously. Even though she’s willing to waste her time on your dumb ass.”
The guys laugh—sharp, bright, too loud. The tall one at the stove flips his pan without looking away from me. “Welcome to the circus. I’m Mason.”
“Dax,” says the one with the knife, barely glancing up. “Don’t mind Riley. He’s compensating.”
“For what?” Riley shoots back, shameless.
More laughter, louder now. Their energy is pure swagger, performing masculinity for each other, showing off. I’m not a guest. I’m the audience.
“Any chance of actual studying happening?” I turn to Kieran, keeping my voice level. “Or should I bill for entertainment?”
Riley blinks. Mason’s spatula pauses. Then they laugh again, but this time it’s different. Surprised, maybe. Almost respectful.
“She’s got teeth,” Mason announces. “I like that.”
“Of course she does,” Riley says, recovering fast. “She’s putting up with O’Connor. That takes backbone.”
Kieran’s hand finds the small of my back. “Ignore them. They’re house-trained. Mostly.”
“Define mostly,” I say.
Dax finally looks up, mouth quirking. “Your boy there wipes doorknobs for cardio. That’s the standard we’re measured against.”
The laughter is warmer now, still bright orange but less aggressive. They’re testing me, I realize. Seeing if I’ll fold or fight back.
I choose neither. I just wait.
Mason gestures with his spatula. “You hungry? I made chicken and rice. Real food.”
“You cook?” slips out before I can stop it.
“Somebody’s gotta keep us alive for the season.” He’s back to performing, playing it up. “Otherwise these idiots would marry a delivery app.”
“Already engaged to DoorDash,” Riley says.
I almost smile.
“Sit,” Mason says, nodding at the island. “Can’t have O’Connor’s girl passing out from malnutrition. Bad for his brand.”
Kieran pulls out a stool for me. I sit, hyperaware of three pairs of eyes tracking the movement, cataloging the interaction.
Dax plates food with surprising precision: chicken, rice, roasted vegetables. He sets it in front of me with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
“Tutoring him.” Riley jerks his chin at Kieran. “Lost cause, that one.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kieran intercepts dryly.
The guys laugh. I pick up my fork.
They eat like they’re competing—fast, efficient, loud. Food disappears at an alarming rate. Between bites, Riley asks, “So what do you do when you’re not saving his GPA? You seem too calm for this chaos.”
“I study. Work.”
“Work where?” Dax asks, still eating.
“Tutoring at the campus math center. Private sessions in between.”
Mason nods, chewing. “Smart. Good money in that.”
“It pays the bills,” I say carefully.
“What else?” Riley presses. “Hobbies? Or is your whole personality just spreadsheets and O’Connor’s failing grades?”
The guys snicker. The sound flares orange-red—sharp, dismissive.
“Karate,” I say.
Riley’s grin is instant. “What, breaking boards at the mall?”
“No,” I reply. “Competing.”
Mason’s spatula slows. “Competing how?”
I hesitate. “International.”
The room stills.
“Past tense?” Dax asks.
“Yes.”
Another beat.
“Oh,” Mason says quietly. “Like…federation-level?”
I nod once. “I did national circuit first. Then international.”
Dax frowns. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen when I won the first title.”
Beside me, Kieran’s hand tightens once at my back, then eases. He says nothing. He doesn’t ask.
Dax lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
Mason shakes his head. “That’s…intense.”
Riley opens his mouth, clearly lining up another question, then closes it when Kieran shoots him a look.
The air shifts. The bright orange noise drains away, replaced by something heavy and gray. They’re not showing off for each other anymore.
If I’m reading the room right, they’re uncomfortable.
Why?
“Why’d you stop?” Dax asks, quieter now.
“Junior champs don’t get paid. You get a medal and a pat on the back.” I spear a piece of chicken. “And acoustical engineering isn’t free. That takes time and money.”
When I glance at Kieran, he’s looking at me in a new way. “A world title,” he says softly, voice humming that steel blue that steadies me. “That kind of discipline changes who you are.”
“It’s not much different from what you guys are doing.”
Mason is suddenly looking everywhere but at me. “That’s...yeah. That’s really something.”
Riley picks up his fork, sets it down, picks it up again. He won’t meet anyone’s eyes.
The energy in the room has shifted completely. They’re being careful. Like they just realized something important and wish they hadn’t.
“More chicken?” Mason offers, voice too gentle.
“I’m good.”
He nods, backing off immediately. Then his eyes flick to Kieran—sharp, weighted, almost accusatory. Kieran’s jaw tightens, controlled. A warning.
Some silent conversation passes between them, something I’m not privy to.
Riley breaks the silence, voice uncharacteristically flat. “Game tonight. You coming?”
I glance at Kieran. We didn’t cover this in our fake dating rule book.
“Uh—”
“She’s coming,” Kieran says, calm as a lock sliding into place. “Right, babe?”
The endearment lands like a stone in still water. Mason’s hand tightens on his spatula. Dax’s counter-wiping stops mid-swipe. Riley looks away fast.
“Sure,” I say, confused. “Wouldn’t miss witnessing…skating.”
No one laughs. The swagger that filled the room minutes ago has completely evaporated.
“Let me help clean up,” I offer, reaching for my plate.
“No!” Riley says it too fast, too sharp. Then, softer, “Guest rules. You just…sit. We’ve got it.”
Kieran’s fingers curl around mine. “Study hall,” he says quietly.
The kitchen falls into uncomfortable silence. No one argues or makes a parting joke. No one meets my eyes as we leave.
“So that was weird,” I say, dropping onto the sofa.
Kieran settles beside me—close, always too close. “They’re hockey players. Weird is baseline.” A flicker crosses his expression, gone before I can name it. “Probably just surprised. I don’t usually bring girls here.”
“Oh.” I pull my notebook from my bag, needing something to do with my hands. “Lucky me, I guess.”
“Yeah.” His voice roughens. “Lucky you.”
I look up. His stare knocks the air from my lungs; the space between us feels one breath from catching fire.
He leans back, grin reforming. “So. Shall we justify your hourly rate?”
“Please.” I flip to the assignment sheet. “Did you finish Feldman’s exercises?”
He hands over a page of neat handwriting. I scan it.
I don’t recognize the structure. It’s not how Feldman taught it. He rebuilt the problem from the inside out.
“Actually…this is all correct.”
“Was that a compliment from Rules?”
“Yes, and your last one. Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.” That grin again. “Already planning the victory parade.”