Chapter 5
PIPER
The basement lab is twenty-six degrees Celsius—three above optimal for hardware health and fifteen above optimal for Piper Renner's patience. Graphics cards whir like hornets, overhead fluorescents stutter like half-hearted apologies, and I’m barricaded in the far corner, pretending my travel mug of lukewarm coffee is a personal force-field.
Mandatory Creative Writing tutoring.
Great.
Exactly how I wanted to spend a Tuesday, some creative-writing guy mansplaining “feelings” so I can drag my Creative Writing grade from a 42 to the magic 68 that keeps my scholarship intact.
His name is Ethan. Every Ethan I knew in high school was a jackass, so the name already has a target on its back.
Footsteps. Male, unhurried, confident.
“Piper?” Warm baritone, edged with surprise.
I spin. It’s him—the diner guy, plant boy. Floppy strawberry-blond hair, with shoulders broad enough to shelve textbooks.
Objectively handsome in an ESPN-after-special way—but not my type. I go for skinny, quiet coder boys who forget to blink, not six-foot jocks with built-in fan clubs.
Still, my pulse hiccups. Traitorous biology.
“Seriously?” slips out.
He sets a cardboard drink tray beside me. His grin tilts, half sheepish, half amused.
“Nice to see you too,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me with that easy confidence jocks always have. I wonder if this guy is in a fraternity. “Brought you water. Figured basement coding requires hydration. Plus coffee, because I’m not a monster.”
I cross my arms. “You’re my tutor?”
“Try to contain your excitement.” He’s still grinning, as if this all is some cosmic joke. “Though I gotta say, your enthusiasm is really boosting my confidence here.”
“Sorry. I just... we’ve barely met. You probably don’t remember—”
“I remember you, Piper.” Steady eye contact; my blood runs hot. “Greg remembers too. He’s thriving, by the way. Grew two new leaves. I think insulting me really motivated him.”
The grin is contagious; I catch myself almost smiling before I shut it down.
“Look, no offense, but I’m never going to need to know about three-act structure in data science. This is just a box I have to check for my scholarship. Can we just... get through this without me having to pretend I care about fictional characters’ emotional journeys?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m being honest. Isn’t that what stories are supposed to be about?”
“Touché.” He leans back, studying me with those annoyingly perceptive eyes. “So why take Creative Writing if you hate it so much?”
I stare at my laptop screen, fingers tightening around my coffee mug.
“I was supposed to take Database Systems. But I was... busy. Distracted. By the time I registered, this was the only thing left that fulfilled my scholarship’s ‘creative expression’ requirement without conflicting with my CS core classes. ”
“And if you fail?”
The question hangs between us, heavier than he probably realizes.
“I lose my scholarship. All of it.” The words come out bitter.
“So you missed registration because...?” He lets the question trail off, but I can see the curiosity in his eyes.
My walls slam back up. “Because I was dealing with stuff, okay? Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Hey, no judgment.” He holds up his hands in surrender.
“We all have our stuff.” His voice is gentler now, less performative.
“Look, I’m not here to psychoanalyze you or whatever.
Professor Long paired us up; I need the tutoring credit, you need to pass.
Simple transaction. Let’s both show up to get this done, yeah? ”
I eye him suspiciously. “That’s it? No inspiring speeches about the power of storytelling?”
My last two tutors were insufferable. Preferring to stroke their own egos than actually help me pass this class.
“Would an inspiring speech help?”
“No.”
“Then nope.” He pulls out a notebook, all business now. “But I am going to need you to at least try. Not for the beauty of narrative or whatever—just so we both get what we need out of this.”
I exhale slowly. He’s right. I need this grade, and he’s apparently my best shot at getting it.
“Fine. But I’ve already cracked the formula on these story grids. Beginning, middle, end. Conflict, resolution. It’s just a template.”
He laughs—warm, not cruel. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
“What’s funny?”
“You can’t formulate stories, Piper. Trust me, I’ve tried. They’re messier than that.”
“Everything can be reduced to patterns. That’s how the world works.”
“Is it though?” He leans forward, and I catch myself noticing the way his eyes light up when he’s engaged. “Okay, tell me—what’s your favorite movie?”
“I don’t see how that’s—”
“Humor me. Favorite movie.”
I think for a moment. “The Matrix.”
“Of course, it is.” He grins. “Okay, so The Matrix. Tell me the formula.”
“Hero’s journey. Ordinary world, call to adventure, mentor figure—”
“But why do you love it?”
I pause. “Because... because Neo’s a hacker who discovers reality is a code.”
“Exactly. You don’t love the formula. You love that specific story, with those specific characters, making those specific choices.” He taps his pen against the notebook. “Stories aren’t math problems. They’re... experiences.”
“Not true. I’d enjoy the story just as much if it was a different character. As long as the structure’s solid, the details are interchangeable.”
“Really?” He leans back, eyebrow raised. “So you’d love The Matrix just as much if the main character was a middle-aged accountant who chose the blue pill, to stay ignorant because he had a mortgage to pay?”
“That’s not—”
“Or if instead of discovering reality is a code, he discovered reality is... I don’t know, made of cheese? Same structure, right? Ordinary world, big revelation, choice to accept or reject the truth.”
I bite back a laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m making a point. You love that specific story because the main character is a lonely hacker who feels like something’s wrong with the world. That speaks to you—the coder who sees patterns everywhere. Change those details, and it’s a completely different experience.”
I pause, caught off-guard by how accurately he’s pegged both Neo and, annoyingly, me. For a guy who looks like he’s been carved out of marble, he knows his sci-fi better than I expected. And his point is... actually making sense, even if I don’t want to admit it.
I chew on my lower lip, buying time. “That’s very poetic and completely unhelpful.”
“Luckily for you, I can be extremely helpful.” He flips open his notebook. “Show me what you’re working on. Let’s see this formula of yours in action.”
I hesitate. Showing him my assignment feels weirdly vulnerable, like admitting I actually tried and failed.
“Come on,” he cajoles. “I promise I’ll only judge you a medium amount.”
“How reassuring.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.” His expression turns more serious. “Look, I get it. This isn’t your thing. But I’m actually pretty good at translating story stuff into language that makes sense to logical people. That’s why Long picked me.”
“Because you speak both nerd and jock?”
“I prefer ‘bilingual in geek and Greek life,’ but yeah.” He grins again. “Plus, I got a 98 in this class last semester.”
My eyebrows shoot up despite myself. Ninety-eight is no joke.
“Fine,” I mutter, sliding my assignment across the table. “But if you tell me to ‘feel the story’ or some crap like that, I’m out.”
My story is basic. We're supposed to outline a short story about somebody being stuck and how they get out. I wrote about a young girl lost in a theme park because she wandered off alone.
“Deal. No feeling required. Just good old-fashioned story magic.” He starts reading, and I watch his face change as he processes my work—focused, thoughtful, occasionally making these little humming sounds.
It’s... oddly endearing.
“Okay,” he says finally. “You’ve got all the pieces. Beginning, middle, end. Conflict. Stakes. But”—he looks up at me—“why should I care about this kid?”
“Because she’s eight and alone in a theme park?”
“That’s circumstance, not character.” He taps the page. “What makes her special? What does she want more than anything?”
“To not be lost?”
“Deeper than that. What did you care about when you were eight?”
The question catches me off guard. When I was eight, I cared about...
“Flopsy,” I blurt out, then immediately want to die.
“What’s a Flopsy?”
Kill me now. “My... stuffed bunny. White, velvet ears. I took him everywhere.”
His whole face lights up like I just handed him gold. “Perfect! That’s what your character needs. Something personal, something that matters beyond just surviving.”
Ethan’s grin sparks and he stands up, stretching his arms overhead. His t-shirt rides up, exposing a strip of tanned abs that absolutely should not be that distracting. I force my eyes back to my notebook.
“Perfect. Act I”—he holds up one finger—“Flopsy safe in backpack.” His second finger shoots up “Act II: maybe the pirate-ship ride snags him—boom, headless bunny.” He motions to decapitate himself and I gasp.
He smiles wider—damn that dimple—and holds up three fingers.
“Act III: the girl chooses between escape and stitching Flopsy back together.” He gestures, carving arcs in the air, completely absorbed in the story.
“You want to decapitate my bunny?”
He drops back into his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The position makes his shoulders look broader, and I hate that I notice. “Why are you upset?”
“Because I love Flopsy.”
He claps, victorious, green-gold eyes lighting up. “Exactly. Emotional attachment. If you feel that gut-twist, so will the reader.”
Annoyingly, he’s right. I shove my glasses up. “Fine. Flopsy’s head can dangle, but we are sewing it back on in Act III. That’s non-negotiable.”
“Deal.” He pops the cap off a pen with his teeth and begins annotating my grid. His handwriting is a relaxed scrawl, looping arrows between columns, adding a sticky note labeled BUNNY DEATH with an exclamation mark that looks suspiciously like a carrot.
We workshop beat by beat, the girl’s flaw (fear of the dark), her secret superpower (map-making), the moment she nearly trades Flopsy for a free fast-pass bracelet.
Ethan’s questions come fast, each one prying the story open without making me feel stupid. When he gets excited about an idea, he gestures wildly, nearly knocking over my coffee. I catch it just in time, and our hands brush. His are warm and larger than mine, and I yank back like I’ve been shocked.
“Sorry.” He grins, not looking sorry at all. “I get carried away. What if we give her quirks? Like…a strawberry allergy?”
I shut it down, but the idea percolates.
Half an hour blinks past. When he finally caps the pen, ink fully decorates the once-sterile page.
“Homework,” he says, tapping the sticky note.
His fingers are stained with blue ink, and somehow even that looks good on him.
This is ridiculous. “Integrate Flopsy, rewrite midpoint, add a beat where she hesitates at the exit gate. Send me the new grid by Thursday. Meet again then? Long said we’ve got to email him twice a week after each session for me to get my credit. Cool?”
“Thursday,” I echo, surprised I’m not dreading the next session.
We pack up. The basement’s recycled air still hums, but the heat feels less suffocating. Or maybe that’s just because I’ve been distracted by... another type of heat. Ethan slings his backpack over one shoulder, the movement casual and graceful, lingering by the doorway.
God, I need to get out of this basement before I do something stupid, like notice how his jeans fit.