Chapter 17
THE STUDY PARTNER PROBLEM (KIERAN)
She fell asleep somewhere past Worcester, head tipped against the window, dark hair spilling across her shoulder. I drove one-handed, glancing over every thirty seconds, trying to memorize her like this.
This is what wanting feels like when you shouldn’t.
She’s here as a friend. I haven’t told her the truth. I’m still the asshole who took a bet to break her heart.
The highway narrows, pine forests closing in, snow piled high where the plows cut through. My phone sits dark in the cupholder. No texts from Isabelle yet, but they’ll come. Making progress? Clock’s ticking.
I should tell her now. Pull over. Wake her. End this before it gets worse.
The words stick, same as they have for weeks.
Because telling her means losing her before I ever get her.
I want this weekend. Just this. A borrowed stretch of time where the bet doesn’t exist and we’re just a boy and a girl driving into the woods, pretending nothing ugly waits at the end.
She stirs as the GPS announces our exit, blinking awake. She catches me watching and smiles, soft and unguarded.
“We’re here?”
“Yeah.” I take the turn toward nothing. “Middle of nowhere.”
She straightens, looking out at the snow-heavy silence. “It’s beautiful.”
“Wait till you see the cabin. Liam sent pictures.”
“And his teammates?”
“A few. Just tonight.” Casual. Controlled. “Quick reset before a run of away games. The rental’s a three-night minimum, though, so if we wanted to stay a couple extra days and work on the project…”
I leave her the out.
She worries her lip. “Wouldn’t that be weird? Just us?”
“Only if we make it weird.”
A small smile. “We are behind.”
Relief and guilt twist together. “They’re leaving tomorrow afternoon. Place is ours through Monday if we want it.”
She nods, hesitation flickering. She knows what staying means.
I feel like a fucking predator. When did I become this guy? The one who lures a girl into a cabin with excuses and half-truths?
The gravel road crunches under the tires. “We can head back with everyone tomorrow. No pressure.”
“No.” She looks at me, steady. “We need the time. For the project.”
Right.
The project.
I’m going to hell.
The cabin sits tucked into the woods, all timber and glass, roof glazed with frost and sunlight. Smoke curls from the chimney. Warm light spills onto the snow.
Liam and Sophie are on the porch when I pull in. Liam lifts a hand, calling back inside, and the front door flies open. Erin barrels out, coat half zipped, hair everywhere.
“About time,” she says, hugging me hard. “Thought you hit black ice.”
Liam skips hello and grabs my shoulder. “Traffic?”
“And her playlist,” I say, slamming the trunk.
Wren arches a brow. “You’re welcome.”
Liam’s grin turns assessing. “So you’re the mysterious tutor.”
“This is Wren,” I say. “Engineering 204.”
“Right.” His smirk is immediate and annoying.
Before I can shut him down, Dmitri steps out, jacket unzipped.
“Little O’Connor. You bring study group to retreat? Punishment for losing scrimmage?”
“Extra credit,” I deadpan, slapping his back.
Wren offers her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Dmitri studies her like a stat sheet. “Not tall,” he decides, shaking her hand. “But strong.”
“I’ll let you know I’m average height for a woman,” she says lightly. “You, on the other hand—”
“Small and feisty,” he concludes, moving aside. “Come. Is warm inside.”
The cabin smells of wood, cinnamon, and roasted garlic. Laughter spills from the kitchen—Jessica and Nate arguing, Eden heckling from the counter.
“Dinner in twenty,” Nate calls. “Assuming Jessica doesn’t light my eyebrows on fire.”
“Stop standing so close to the stove,” Jessica fires back.
Wren laughs—low, unguarded—and the room tilts toward her for half a beat too long.
“This is Wren,” I say.
“Study partner,” she supplies smoothly, offering her hand. “Semester project.”
Introductions make the rounds. Sophie appears with wine and saves her from the attention.
“Ignore them,” she says. “Hockey boys are all idiots. Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
“Good to know the taxonomy.” Wren smiles.
“I like her,” Jessica calls from the kitchen.
Me too. Way too much.
Sophie and Eden lift Wren’s bag and head for the stairs. Sophie glances back.
“You coming?”
“I’m taking the couch.”
The words hang there—unnecessary, unasked for.
Sophie pauses, clocks it, then smooths her expression. “Got it.”
The ribbing starts as soon as we hear the door shut behind them.
“Since when do you bring study partners to these weekends?” Finn asks.
“Evolution,” Liam adds. “Historic moment.”
“Draft the press release,” Nate calls. “Kieran O’Connor, emotionally available.”
Dmitri hides a grin. “Rookie. Heart injury.”
“Shut up.”
“Couch?” Finn says. “That’s devotion.”
“We’re friends,” I snap. “That’s it.”
Liam steps closer, voice low. “Then why haven’t you looked away from her once in the past fifteen minutes?”
For a second, I almost tell him everything—the bet, Isabelle, how this started.
Instead, I shake my head. “There’s no story.”
“Bullshit,” Dmitri says easily. “You look at her like she hung the moon.”
“Maybe she did,” I mutter, grabbing a beer.
Laughter drifts down the stairs—Wren’s mixed with Sophie’s and Eden’s. It settles heavy in my chest.
“She seems like a good girl,” Liam says, quieter now. “Just…be decent to her.”
“I will.”
Another lie.
Dinner is sheet-pan salmon with roasted vegetables and citrus. The table fills quickly—laughter, overlapping conversations, glasses clinking. Wren sits between Sophie and Erin, shoulders loosening as the wine flows and the questions stay easy.
At some point, she leans toward the stone fireplace, watching the flames.
“This fire sounds gold,” she murmurs.
The table stills just a fraction.
“Gold?” Sophie asks, curious.
“Wood fires ring warm and bright,” Wren says. “Gas fires sound thin. Silver. Draft gives it a brass edge.”
Sophie’s eyes light. “That’s synesthesia, right? When did you realize other people didn’t experience it like you do?”
“Second grade.” Wren nods. “I told my teacher the school bell sounded brown. She said bells don’t have colors. So I stopped mentioning it.”
A beat.
“My mom understood,” she adds. “She said music has color if you listen long enough. When she played the flute, the house glowed violet. Not every note—just her.”
Silence settles, careful and attentive.
“She practiced constantly,” Wren continues. “Same passage, over and over, until it was perfect.”
“She was a flutist?” Erin asks.
Wren nods. “Transylvania State Philharmonic. Later the New Jersey Symphony.” A flicker of surprise crosses a few faces, but no one interrupts. “After my parents died, I moved in with my aunt and uncle. My aunt thought synesthesia was something I should grow out of.”
Dmitri’s voice is low. “Both parents?”
“Car accident,” Wren says evenly. “FDR. Wrong-way driver.”
The table goes quiet.
“Do you play?” I ask, already regretting it.
“Not anymore,” she says. “She taught me the basics, but I was focused on karate. After… I gave up a lot that year.”
Sophie reaches for her hand. “That must have been hard. Losing them. And feeling like you had to hide part of yourself.”
“It was,” Wren says simply. “But I still see the colors. I just don’t always tell people.”
Something lodges in my chest and doesn’t move.
I see her—young, alone in a house that no longer glowed violet, trying to explain a world no one else could see. Learning to quiet the parts of herself that made people uncomfortable.
And I’m the asshole who took a bet to ruin her.
My grip tightens on my fork.
“Does it ever get overwhelming?” Eden asks.
“Sometimes,” Wren says. “Crowds are hard. But mostly it helps. It’s how my brain sorts things.”
No apology. No self-consciousness.
That’s when it hits me.
I’m in love with her.
Not the loud kind. Not the reckless kind. Clean. Certain.
Wren Marin—who sees the world in color, who survived loss and learned restraint instead of bitterness. Who said no to me until I manipulated her into saying yes.
Eden leans into Nate, whispering. He grins at me.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing,” Eden says. “Just…you’re staring.”
“I’m listening.”
“Sure,” Nate says. “That’s what we said.”
Before I can answer, Dmitri stands. “Hot tub. Five minutes.”
The spell breaks.
Groans and cheers erupt. Jessica complains about freezing; Finn hoists her over his shoulder and heads for the hall. Laughter rolls through the cabin, loud and easy.
Wren disappears upstairs with Sophie and Erin. The second her footsteps fade, Liam elbows me.
“You’re done for,” he says.
“Shut up.”
He snorts. “You don’t bring girls to these weekends. You definitely don’t sleep on the couch.”
“Watch me.”
“That’s not your move,” he says, quieter now. “So talk to me.”
He pulls me aside, the humor draining from his face.
“You show up with a girl you can’t take your eyes off,” he says. “And then you put yourself on the couch. That’s not just restraint, I can tell.”
I could tell him. About Isabelle. The bet. The way this started as a joke and turned into something that could ruin me.
He’d tell me to come clean. Tonight. Before I do real damage.
He’d be right.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie instead. “It’s just…new.”
“New,” he repeats. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not trying to turn this into something it’s not.” I hesitate. “Or rush her into something she didn’t ask for.”
Liam studies me for a long beat. Then his voice softens.
“So you’re not there yet.”
“No,” I say. “We’re not.”
He nods once. “Okay.” Then, firmly, “But if you’re in deeper than you are admitting to, you don’t handle it alone. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Dmitri appears, towels slung over his shoulder. “Hot tub,” he announces.
Liam claps my shoulder. “Don’t screw this up.”
As if I don’t already know.
Steam lifts into the night, cold air biting exposed skin. Stars scatter across the black sky, sharp and endless this far from the city. Glasses line the railing. Erin drapes over Dmitri’s shoulder, Sophie tucks under Liam’s arm, Jessica steals Finn’s drink, and Eden leans into Nate.
Then Wren steps out.
Oversized sweater. Bare legs. Hair twisted up in a loose knot. She looks small and solid at the same time—quiet confidence, no performance. She perches on the edge of the tub, toes skimming the surface, testing the heat.
Then she pulls the sweater over her head.
Fuuuck.
A navy Speedo. No fuss. No glitter. Just function. And yet…
She slips into the water beside me, and I have to consciously breathe. I make space I don’t want to make, stare at the water like it might save me. My grip tightens on the rim.
“Breathe, rookie,” Finn murmurs.
“Hands visible,” Dmitri adds.
Laughter breaks the moment. I don’t join it.
Her thigh brushes mine under the water—barely there. Heat races up my spine. I shift carefully, hyperaware of every inch we’re not touching.
“You okay?” she asks, quiet.
“Fine,” I manage.
The conversation swirls around us—playoff stories, arguments about defense, background noise. I can’t track any of it. Every cell in my body is tuned to the girl beside me and the space between us that feels impossibly thin.
She leans closer, voice low. “You sure you’re okay on the couch? The bed’s huge. We’d both fit.”
I nearly choke.
“I’m good,” I say quickly.
Her eyes linger on mine for a beat too long. Then she turns back to the steam, and I’m left wondering if she feels this pull too—or if I’m alone in it.
The game starts harmless enough—Finn daring Jessica, Jessica daring him back. Laughter builds. Then Finn grins.
“Truth or dare, Wren.”
“Truth.”
“Nerdiest thing you’ve ever done on a date.”
Silence drops like a puck.
“That’s easy. I’ve never been on one.”
The world tilts.
Never been on a date.
Which means—
The realization hits cold and sharp: if anything happens this weekend, I’ll be her first. First kiss. First everything.
Nausea surges.
“That’s criminal,” I blurt.
What I mean is: I am.
She meets my eyes calmly. “Relax, O’Connor. I’m not asking you to fix it.”
A ripple of laughter, uneasy but moving on. The noise returns. Steam curls. Drinks clink.
I’m frozen in place.
Never been on a date.
The words sit in my chest like a live wire.
If I tell her now, it ends. The weekend. The tension. The lie. I tell her, and this becomes a story she tells later about the asshole hockey player who tried to turn her into a joke.
That’s what should happen.
I turn toward her, heart hammering, my mouth already shaping her name—
She’s watching the water, fingers tracing idle circles on the surface. Open. Unarmed. Trusting.
A confession here wouldn’t be honest. It would be violent.
I’ll tell her later.
Tomorrow. When it’s quiet. When it’s just us. When I can explain instead of detonating everything in front of an audience.
That’s what I tell myself.
She shifts closer, her knee brushing mine again.
My resolve shatters.
I say nothing.
And in that silence, I know—with sick, perfect clarity—that I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.
“Well,” Erin says gently, breaking the tension, “that just means when it happens, it’ll be with the right person.”
Wren smiles. Small. Hopeful.
I tighten my grip on the rim of the tub and let the lie settle heavier in my chest.