Chapter 5
Greg
Routine is a narcotic. It dulls the sharp edges of reality. It tricks you into thinking you’re safe, that the world is predictable, that the variables are contained.
For the last four days, I had been high on it.
This was the new world order. The "Vane Protocol," as Beef had started calling it.
I sat in our corner of the library—yes, our corner now; I had effectively intimidated the rest of the student body into viewing Table 4 near the Economics stacks as sovereign territory—and watched her.
Michelle was currently vibrating.
She had a flashcard in one hand and a highlighter in the other. Her leg was bouncing under the table, a rapid-fire rhythm that was shaking the entire surface. Her hair was a chaotic halo of platinum waves, held back by a pencil she’d shoved through the knot.
She looked frantic. She looked exhausted.
She looked beautiful.
I gritted my teeth, forcing my eyes back to my own textbook. Advanced Game Theory. Usually, I could lose myself in the math of it. The beauty of predicting irrational actors.
But the most irrational actor in the hemisphere was sitting three feet away, chewing on her lower lip.
"Stop it," I said, without looking up.
The bouncing leg stopped immediately.
"Stop what?" she whispered.
"The leg. You’re shaking the table. It’s affecting my ability to read chart 4.2."
"I can’t help it," she hissed. "My brain is leaking out of my ears. Do you know how many ratios are in this chapter? It’s infinite. It’s a conspiracy."
"It’s seven," I said. "There are seven ratios."
"Feels like infinite." She dropped her head onto the open book with a thud. "I’m going to fail. I’m going to end up living in a box under the Santa Monica pier, selling friendship bracelets made of sea glass."
I closed my book. The silence at the table was heavy, charged with the peculiar intimacy that had developed between us. It wasn't the hostile silence of the first week. It was comfortable. Domestic.
I reached out and tapped the top of her head with my pen.
"Head up, Vane. You’re crushing the knowledge."
She lifted her head. Her mascara was slightly smudged under one eye. She looked at me with those wide, blue eyes that seemed to bypass my logical brain and hotwire my central nervous system.
"Quiz me," she demanded. "Right now. If I don't know it, just put me out of my misery. Use one of your hockey sticks."
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. I enjoyed this. I shouldn't, but I did. I enjoyed the way she looked to me for validation. I enjoyed the way she submitted to the process, even while complaining every step of the way.
"Inventory Turnover," I said.
She blinked. "Cost of Goods Sold divided by Average Inventory."
"Good," I nodded. "What does it tell you?"
"It tells you... how fast you're selling your stuff so it doesn't rot in a warehouse and become a liability."
"Acceptable. Current Ratio."
"Current Assets divided by Current Liabilities." She sat up straighter, a spark of confidence lighting up her face. "It measures liquidity. Can I pay my bills if everything goes to hell tomorrow?"
"Exactly." I lowered my voice. "And what about you, Michelle? What's your liquidity?"
She froze. The double meaning hung in the air between us. We weren't talking about finance anymore. We rarely were. Every conversation felt like a negotiation, a dance where we circled the inevitable collision.
"I'm... solvent," she whispered, her gaze dropping to my mouth.
"Are you?" I asked softly.
I watched her throat work as she swallowed. Her skin was flushed.
"Greg?"
"Hmm?"
"You're staring at me again."
"I'm observing," I corrected. "I'm checking for signs of structural failure."
"And?"
"And I think you're ready."
She let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. "Don't lie to me. You're paid to be nice."
"I'm not paid to be nice," I said, my voice hardening slightly. "I'm paid to be effective. And I don't lie. You know the material. You just panic because you think you're an impostor."
She flinched. Bullseye.
"I am an impostor," she muttered, picking at the edge of the table. "Everyone else here got in because they're geniuses. I got in because my dad built a library wing."
"You got an A on the practice quiz yesterday," I reminded her.
"Luck."
"Michelle." I waited until she looked at me. "You're smart. You're scattered, you're undisciplined, and you have the attention span of a golden retriever in a tennis ball factory. But you're smart. Stop apologizing for existing."
Her eyes widened. A slow, genuine blush crept up her neck. It wasn't the angry flush I was used to. It was softer. Prettier.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay," I echoed. I checked my watch. 8:00 PM. "Pack up. We're done."
"But the exam is tomorrow morning! I need to review the—"
"No," I cut her off. "The Law of Diminishing Returns. You push any harder tonight, you'll start forgetting things. You need sleep. You need food. Pack up."
She hesitated, her rebellious streak warring with her exhaustion. Exhaustion won.
"Fine," she grumbled, shoving her books into her bag. "But if I fail, I'm haunting you. I'm going to be the ghost in your room that knocks over your trophies."
"I'll take my chances."
I stood up and grabbed her bag before she could lift it.
"I can carry it," she protested automatically.
"I know." I slung it over my shoulder. It looked ridiculous against my frame—a designer tote bag meant for fashion week, currently housing ten pounds of textbooks. "But I'm walking you home."
"We live in the same house, Greg. You're always walking me home."
"Walk," I ordered, pointing toward the door.
She rolled her eyes, but she walked. And as I followed her through the stacks, watching the sway of her hips in those ridiculous leather leggings, I felt the familiar tighten in my chest.
The Wolf was pacing. And the cage was getting weaker every day.
The storm hit halfway back to the house.
It was classic Maine weather—one minute clear, the next a torrential downpour of freezing rain that turned the world into a grey, slick mess.
We ran the last block, slipping on the icy pavement, laughing despite the cold. By the time we burst through the front door of the Ice Box, we were soaked.
The house was empty. Beef and the rest of the guys were at a movie.
It was just us.
Michelle leaned against the front door, gasping for breath. Her hair was plastered to her skull, dark with rain. Her mascara had run, giving her a raccoon-chic look that somehow worked for her. Her white t-shirt was translucent, clinging to her skin.
I looked away. It took a physical effort, like bench-pressing a truck, but I looked away.
"Go upstairs," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "Dry off. I'll make tea."
"Tea?" She laughed, kicking off her boots. "I don't need tea, Gavel. I need a drink. I need to celebrate not dying of boredom."
"No alcohol before the exam," I recited Rule #4.
"You're no fun," she teased, pushing off the door.
She walked toward me. She didn't stop at the respectful roommate distance. She kept coming until she was standing right in front of me in the foyer.
She reached up and poked my chest.
"You're soaked too," she noted.
"I'm fine."
"You're dripping on the rug." She looked up at me, water dripping from her eyelashes. The playfulness in her eyes shifted into something darker. Something hungrier. "You know, for a guy who's obsessed with rules, you break the dress code a lot."
"There is no dress code."
"Exactly. You wear shirts that are too tight. It's distracting."
My hands twitched at my sides. "Is that why you can't focus on ratios? My shirts?"
"Maybe," she whispered. She took a step closer. Her chest brushed against mine. "Maybe I'm just studying the anatomy of a tyrant."
The air in the hallway evaporated.
"Michelle," I warned. "Go upstairs."
"Make me."
Two words. Two dangerous, stupid words.
She was pushing. She was stressed about the exam, adrenaline was high from the run, and she was looking for a release. She was looking for a fight.
I should walk away. I should go to the kitchen.
Instead, I dropped her bag on the floor.
The sound was heavy, final.
I reached out and wrapped my hand around the back of her neck. Her skin was cold from the rain, but she leaned into the touch instantly, a small sound escaping her throat.
"You think this is a game," I murmured, stepping into her space until her back hit the wall next to the coat rack. "You think you can tease me because I'm the 'nice' guy who helps you with your homework."
Her eyes were huge, searching mine. "Are you the nice guy, Greg?"
"Not tonight."
I looked down at her lips. They were parted, wet with rain.
I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb. She shivered, her whole body vibrating against me.
"You're cold," I said.
"I'm freezing."
"Let's get you warm."
I didn't let go of her neck. I turned her and marched her toward the stairs. Not the guest stairs. My stairs.
"Where are we going?" she asked, stumbling slightly to keep up with my long strides.
"My shower has better water pressure," I said. "And my room is warmer."
"Greg..."
I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The logic center of my brain had officially gone offline.
We reached the top of the stairs and I pushed open the heavy black door to my room.
She stepped inside, looking around. She’d never been in here. It was sparse. Grey walls. Black furniture. The massive king-sized bed perfectly made with military corners. A single framed photo of my parents on the dresser.
It smelled like me. Concentrated.
"It's... intense," she whispered.
"Bathroom," I pointed.
She hesitated. She turned to look at me, water dripping from her nose. "Are you coming in?"
The question hung there.
I looked at her—wet, shivering, looking at me with that mix of fear and desperate attraction.
"No," I said. "Get in the shower. Leave the door unlocked. I'll get you a dry shirt."
She looked disappointed. Or maybe relieved. I couldn't tell.
She turned and went into the bathroom. I heard the lock click.
She locked it.
Defiant to the end.