Chapter 3 #2
His smirk widens. Instead of moving away, he reaches out and flattens his massive palm right in the middle of my open notebook, his fingers spreading wide over the text, dominating the entire page between us.
“Focus, Pope,” he murmurs, his voice dropping a fraction.
Heat rushes straight to my neck. I swallow hard, my brain completely blank. “Right. Trait lines.”
Boone chuckles and pulls his hand back, tapping my paper. “Recessive traits. Keep going.”
Ten minutes later, he catches me checking my GPA app for the third time.
He sets his pen down. “Talk to me. The forty-six is still eating at you, isn’t it?”
I sigh, wrapping my hands around my warm coffee cup. “I’m on the Human Heritage Scholarship. It covers tuition, most of my housing, and a chunk of my books. My parents help with what they can, but if I lose it, I can’t afford CU. I go home.”
Boone’s expression turns serious. “What GPA do you need?”
“A solid C average minimum. My other classes are okay, but if I bomb Bio, it tanks everything. And I actually studied for that first paper. That’s what’s pissing me off—I put the hours in and still failed.”
“Because Perkowinski grades like you grew up in a pack,” Boone says quietly. “It’s not about effort.”
“Doesn’t matter. If I fail, I lose the vet program.”
“Why this campus? You could do pre-vet in Ohio.”
“Not like this,” I tell him, leaning in.
“Creature University’s vet program is the original.
They treat regular domestic pets and creature familiars.
Shifter trauma, dragon-kin temperature regulation, magical reactions—nobody else teaches this stuff at this level.
I want my own clinic someday. If I can handle a wolf’s dog or a witch’s cat without panicking, I’ll be ten times better at my job. ”
Boone looks at me, his amber eyes completely steady. “You really give a shit about this.”
“Of course I do.”
“No, I mean you really care.” He reaches into his bag. “Alright. Then we’re not just fixing one bad grade. We’re fixing the whole semester.”
He drops five different colored pens onto the wooden table with a loud clatter.
I stare at them. “What are you doing?”
“Making a schedule.”
“Boone, why does a starting football player own five color-coded pens?”
“Six,” he corrects, pulling out a green one.
I grab his wrist before he can uncap it. “Stop. This is concerning.”
His skin is hot under my fingers, solid muscle and rough warmth. He doesn’t pull away—just looks down at my hand on his wrist, then up at my face.
I let go instantly, clearing my throat. “I’m not doing six a.m. study blocks.”
“I wasn’t going to write that.” He clicks the blue pen. “What’s Monday morning?”
“Eight a.m. anatomy.”
He writes 7:15 AM - brEAKFAST in bold letters.
“Hey!” I protest. “You can’t schedule my food.”
“You went ten hours without eating on Tuesday. You can’t be trusted.”
“I was busy!”
“You were starving,” he says, ignoring my glare as he blocks out my classes, lab hours, and study windows. He actually listens, though—leaving my Friday nights open for Delilah and making sure I have real breaks between lectures.
When he’s done, the whole week looks organized. Doable.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the page.
Boone grins. “Thought my pens were concerning?”
“They are. The system is just barely acceptable.”
By the time we pack up, it’s past eight. My shoulder is throbbing from hauling my heavy canvas bag around all day. As we step outside into the chilly night air, I roll it with a quiet wince.
Boone doesn’t even ask. He just reaches out, slides the heavy strap off my shoulder, and slings my bag over his own back next to his gym duffel.
I stop on the sidewalk. “Did you just rob me?”
“Your shoulder hurts.”
“I can carry my own shit, Kinkaid.”
Boone stops and turns to look down at me in the dim streetlights. He hands me back my binder, but keeps the bag firmly on his shoulder.
“I know you can take care of yourself, Maisie. That doesn’t mean you have to make everything harder just to prove it.”
I open my mouth to fire back something sarcastic, but nothing comes out. His voice is completely level, without any teasing or condescension.
We walk the rest of the way to my dorm in comfortable silence. When we hit the front steps, he swings my bag down and hands it over.
“Same time next week?” he asks.
“Yeah. Thanks, Boone. Really.”
“Study chapter four. Goodnight, Maisie.”
“Night.”
I head inside and take the stairs up to my room, my chest feeling lighter than it has all week.
The second I unlock the door, I announce, “Boone likes me.”
“I didn’t say a word,” Delilah says.
“Your face is doing plenty.” I drop my heavy bag on the floor. “Tutoring was fine. Productive. Academic.”
Delilah watches me kick off my shoes. “You’re smiling like an idiot.”
“I’m happy about biology.”
“Sure.” Delilah crosses her arms. “He carried your bag to the door, didn’t he? I saw him from the window.”
“My shoulder was sore. He was being polite.”
“Maisie.”
“What?”
“Nice guys don’t look at girls the way Boone looks at you,” she says bluntly. “And they definitely don’t memorize custom coffee orders after two days.”
I grab my pajamas and head for the bathroom without answering. “I’m taking a shower.”
“Run away all you want!” she calls after me.
I shut the bathroom door, turn on the light, and look at myself in the mirror.
Delilah is being ridiculous. Boone is an elite wolf from a famous family, and I’m a broke human girl trying not to flunk out of freshman year. It’s tutoring. It’s just friendly.
I lean against the sink, my pulse tripping over itself.
Finding Boone hot is simple. Any girl with working eyes would find him hot.
Wanting Delilah to be right is the terrifying part.
Because staring at my reflection in the bright bathroom light, I realize I really fucking hope she is.