Page 53 of The Puck Contract

"Let me walk you home," he offers, already gathering up my scattered papers and organizing them into a neat stack. "It's late."

"You don't have to do that," I protest weakly. "I'm sure you have better things to do than babysit a sleep-deprived anthropology student."

"Actually, I don't." He hands me my papers with a smile that seems genuine despite my awkward moment. "Besides, I need to make sure you don't wander into traffic while contemplating the cultural significance of crosswalks or whatever."

I should say no. I should maintain some professional distance, especially after that contract payment reminder. But I'm tired, and his company makes me happy in a way I'm not ready to examine too closely.

"Okay," I concede, packing my papers and books into my already overstuffed backpack. "But fair warning, I might babble incoherently about anthropological theory. Sleep deprivation does weird things to me."

"I've seen Wall after a triple-overtime playoff game. Trust me, I can handle incoherent babbling."

Outside, the early spring night is cool but not cold. Campus is quieter than usual, most students either holed up studying or already at the local bars drowning their academic sorrows. We walk side by side, not quite touching but close enough that our hands occasionally brush, sending little jolts of electricity up my arm each time.

"So," Groover says after a comfortable silence, "when's your presentation?"

"Thursday morning," I reply, surprised he remembered that detail. "Dr. Winters scheduled me first, which is either a vote of confidence or punishment for that time I corrected her about Malinowski's fieldwork methods."

"I'd like to come," he says casually, as if he hasn't just suggested voluntarily attending an academic presentation on urban anthropology. "If that's okay with you."

I stop walking, turning to stare at him. "You want to come to my presentation? Voluntarily?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" There's a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

"Kind of, yeah. It's at 8 AM on a Thursday, and it's going to be me nervously rambling about spatial semiotics for twenty minutes while my classmates try not to fall asleep."

"Sounds riveting," he deadpans. "But seriously, I'd like to be there. Support the boyfriend and all that."

There it is again—boyfriend. The reminder that this is all for show. But if that's true, why would he want to come to an academic presentation with no media, no photographers, no PR value whatsoever?

"If you really want to," I say slowly, "I guess that would be... nice."

We resume walking, the silence now charged with something I can't quite name. Our hands brush again, and this time, his pinky catches mine for just a moment before we both pull away.

"Groover?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are you doing this?" The question slips out before I can think better of it.

"Walking you home?" he asks, though I think he knows that's not what I mean.

"All of it," I clarify. "The coffee, the studying, wanting to come to my presentation. It's not like anyone's watching. It doesn't... count for the arrangement."

He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."

"Oh."

"Is that so surprising?"

Yes, I want to say.It's surprising that someone like you—confident, successful, gorgeous—would genuinely enjoy hanging out with a nerdy anthropology student who stress-bakes at 2 AM and takes pictures of discarded furniture.

Instead, I say, "I like spending time with you too."

We reach my apartment building too soon. The walk from campus is only about fifteen minutes, but tonight it felt even shorter. We stop at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door, facing each other in the soft glow of the street lamp.

"Thanks for the study break," I say, suddenly awkward now that we've reached the end of our time together. "And the coffee. And the attempt at pronouncing 'epistemological framework.'"

"Epi-steam-logical frame-working," he says with exaggerated confidence, making me laugh.

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