Chapter 4
JESSE
The blood rushed from my face so quickly I thought I might faint.
Adrian Costas stood three feet away, arms crossed, that same knowing smile from the bathroom playing at the corners of his mouth.
Students flowed around us like water around stones, their conversations a distant hum beneath the roar in my ears.
"I—what?" The words came out strangled.
"Your argument. In class." He stepped closer, and I caught that same scent from the night before—something clean and masculine that made my chest tight. "About the Establishment Clause. It was weak. Memorized talking points without substance."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you do." His voice was casual, conversational, like we were old friends catching up. "You rattled off standard conservative doctrine without engaging with the actual constitutional question. It's like you were afraid to think for yourself."
My hands tightened on my messenger bag. "I wasn't—I answered the professor's question correctly."
"You answered it safely." His dark eyes held mine, and I couldn't look away. "There's a difference between correct and safe, Jesse. You were playing it safe and we both know it.”
The sound of my name in his mouth sent something hot and terrifying through my stomach. I'd never given him permission to use it, but he said it like he owned it.
"I don't play things safe," I managed, though my voice betrayed me with a slight tremor.
Adrian laughed—not mocking, but genuinely amused. "Really? When was the last time you took a position that wasn't handed to you by your church?"
"My faith isn't—that's not—" I stuttered, heat spreading down my neck. "You don't understand."
"Then why don’t you explain it to me." He shifted his weight, somehow managing to look both relaxed and predatory. "Walk with me. Let me buy you a coffee, and you can tell me why originalism trumps evolving constitutional interpretation."
"I can't." The words came out too quickly, too sharp. Several students glanced our way, and panic fluttered in my chest. "I have somewhere to be."
"No, you don't." His certainty was infuriating. "Your next class isn't until three, and it's barely noon. I checked your schedule."
My mouth fell open. "You—what?"
"Student directory. Pre-law program isn't that big." He shrugged like stalking my academic calendar was perfectly normal. "Come on, Jesse. What's the worst that could happen? Someone might see you having an intellectual conversation?"
The way he said it—like he could see right through my panic to the fear beneath—made my face burn hotter. Because that was exactly what I was afraid of. Someone from church seeing me with him. Word getting back to my father. Questions I couldn't answer.
"I really can't—"
But Adrian was already walking, somehow managing to make it look like we'd decided this together.
My feet moved before my brain could stop them, my body betraying me the way it had the night before.
I found myself falling into step beside him, telling myself I was only walking in the same direction.
"See? That wasn't so hard." His voice held that same amused tone, like I was a puzzle he was enjoying solving. "There's a good coffee place just off campus. Better than the radioactive swill they serve in the student union."
"I don't drink coffee," I said weakly.
"Don't be silly, everyone drinks coffee. You just haven't found the right one for you yet."
We walked in silence for several minutes, my entire body vibrating with tension.
Students passed us going the other direction, and I found myself scanning each face, searching for anyone who might recognize me.
Anyone who might report back that Jesse Miller was seen walking with the boy from the bar.
The boy who'd challenged everything I'd said in class.
The boy who made my pulse race in ways that were absolutely, categorically wrong.
"You're wound tighter than a clock spring," Adrian observed. "When's the last time you let your guard down and relaxed?"
"I am relaxed," I lied.
"Right. And I'm the Pope." He glanced sideways at me, and I caught him taking in my rigid posture, my white-knuckled grip on my bag.
"Let me guess—you have a schedule. Wake up at the same time every day, same breakfast, same route to class.
You probably iron your underwear too. Tighty whities, no doubt. "
The accuracy of his assessment made me stumble slightly—not just because he was right about the schedule, but because the mental image of Adrian thinking about my underwear sent heat flooding through places it absolutely shouldn't.
I did iron my underwear. I ironed everything.
And they were, mortifyingly, exactly what he'd guessed.
"I don't—that's not—how is that even relevant?" My voice pitched higher than normal, and his grin widened like he could read every flustered thought racing through my head.
"Hit a nerve, did I?" His tone was pure mischief now, and I realized with growing horror that he was enjoying this. Enjoying making me squirm. "I'll take that as a yes on the ironing. What about the style? Am I warm?"
"We are not discussing my undergarments," I managed, my face burning so hot I probably looked like a tomato.
"Fair enough. Though the fact that you call them 'undergarments' tells me everything I need to know."
There was something about the way he said it—not mocking, exactly, but fond somehow, like my mortification was endearing rather than pathetic—that made my chest do something complicated.
"There's nothing wrong with being organized," I said weakly, trying to regain some dignity.
"Organized, no. Terrified of spontaneity, yes." We'd reached the coffee shop—a small place called The Grind with mismatched wooden chairs and local art covering the walls. Adrian held the door open, and before I could protest, I found myself inside.
The smell hit me immediately—rich, dark coffee mixed with something sweet and warm. Students clustered around small tables, textbooks open, laptops glowing. It felt dangerous, this casual space where people gathered without purpose or supervision.
"Two coffees," Adrian told the barista, a girl with purple hair and multiple piercings. "Make his mild—he's a coffee virgin."
The word 'virgin' hung in the air like a neon sign, and I felt my face catch fire. The barista smirked, clearly picking up on whatever subtext Adrian was laying down thick as honey.
"I said I don't want—"
"Trust me." He handed over a ten-dollar bill, his eyes never leaving mine, that wicked grin spreading wider. "First times can be overwhelming, but I'll be gentle. Start you off slow, work up to the hard stuff until you beg for more."
My mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. He was talking about coffee. Obviously he was talking about coffee. So why did every word sound like... like something else entirely?
"You'll thank me," he continued, waving away my fumbling attempt to reach for my wallet. "I'm very good at knowing exactly what someone needs their first time."
The barista was definitely trying not to laugh now, and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
I stood frozen while he paid, hyperaware of how this looked. A transaction. Him buying me something. Like a... like a date. The thought sent panic spiralling through my chest.
"I shouldn't have let you pay for that," I said as we moved to wait for our drinks.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know you. Because this isn't... we're not..." I couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't voice what my churning stomach was suggesting this might look like.
"We're not what?" Adrian's voice was pure innocence, but his eyes danced with mischief. "Two guys getting to know each other over coffee? Because that's exactly what we are."
The way he said 'getting to know each other' made my pulse spike. There was nothing technically inappropriate about the words, but somehow they felt loaded with meaning I couldn't quite grasp.
"I meant we're not—this isn't a—" I gestured helplessly between us.
"A date?" He supplied the word I couldn't say, and I nearly choked. "Well, no. I mean, I didn't bring you flowers or anything. Though if you wanted to call it that..." He let the sentence hang, watching my face with obvious amusement.
"We're discussing constitutional law," I said desperately.
"Sure we are. Very academic. Very professional." His grin was absolutely wicked now. "Though I have to say, Jesse, for someone who's definitely not on a date, you're blushing like a virgin on prom night."
My face caught fire again, and I realized with growing horror that he was enjoying every second of my mortification. Worse—some twisted part of me was enjoying it too.
The barista called out our drinks, and Adrian collected them both, handing me a cup with some kind of foam art on top. I stared at it like it might bite me.
"Vanilla latte," he explained, steering me toward a corner table. "Baby steps."
I wanted to leave. Every instinct screamed at me to put down the cup, walk away, go back to my apartment where things made sense. Instead, I sat down across from him, my back to the window so I couldn't see who might be passing by.
"Okay," Adrian said, settling into his chair with easy confidence. "Let's talk about why your argument was garbage."
"It wasn't garbage." The words came out more defensive than I'd intended.
"Fine. It was recycled garbage. Better?" He took a sip of his coffee—black, of course—and leaned back. "You quoted Scalia like he was divinely inspired, but you didn't engage with why his interpretation might be flawed."
"Because it isn't flawed." I wrapped my hands around the warm cup, using it as an anchor. "Originalism respects the founders' intent. It prevents activist judges from imposing their personal beliefs."