Page 61 of Good Graces

“I didn’t know you were TA-ing this class,” he says finally.

“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging. “Surprise.”

His mouth twitches. “Guess I’ll have to make sure I don’t slack off, then.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be grading your papers.”

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Wouldn’t want you playing favorites.”

“Yeah, nepotism is exactly what I’m known for.”

He gives a soft, breathy chuckle, the kind that feels like it’s meant for just me. And for a second, it’s like we’re lying back in that field again on the last day of summer, starlight flickering low over the grass, me tucked against his chest and him tracing slow circles against my naked spine.

I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and say, “Didn’t know you were suddenly into literature.”

His smile falters. “I needed the credit.”

“Right,” I say, and I mean to leave it there, I really do. “That the only reason you’re here?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “What are you asking me?”

I hate that my pulse jumps. Hate that some soft, silly part of me wants to believe there’s more to this. “I’m not asking anything,” I say, and I turn toward the door.

I barely make it three steps before his hand finds my wrist. It’s nothing—just a quick touch, barely there—but I stop like I’ve hit a wall. Something in me short-circuits at the warmth of his fingers on my skin, and I’m physically incapable of moving forward.

“Quinny,” he says softly.

“Don’t call me that,” I murmur.

His grip tightens. It’s not enough to hurt, but enough to hold me there. Enough to make my breath catch.

“You don’t have to act this way,” he says. “Weren’t you the one that saidwe should talk?”

I frown. “Weren’t you the one that said youreally don’t fucking care about me?”

His gaze dips to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I lied. You know I did. Look, Friday night, I think we both—”

“I don’t have time for this.”

I walk forward with his hand still wrapped around my wrist. He trails after me without a word, without resistance, like he knew this was coming. Like he’s been waiting for it.

I don’t stop until we’re halfway down the hall, tucked around the corner where no one else can see us. The air smells faintly like chalk dust and stale coffee, and the flickering overhead light is already giving me a headache.

But his thumb is still pressed against the inside of my wrist like he’s keeping count. Like if he holds on long enough, he’ll figure out how to sync his heartbeat to mine and make me stay.

“We let our past and the proximity get the best of us these last few weeks,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I get that. But it’s long over between us.”

“You think I don’t already know that?”

I sigh. “Then why are you wasting your time trying to hash this out?”

“I’m gonna be in your class all semester long.”

“I know,” I say. “And it’ll be fine. It’ll be normal. I hardly interact with TAs in my regular classes. That’s the thing about teachers’ assistants and students—they stay in their lanes. But don’t—” I shake my head, swallowing hard. “Don’t make this into something.”

“So, you can be the bigger person at the club? Sit and wait for me on the hood of my car, tell me to be civil, but I can’t request the same from you?”

“This isschool, Warren.”

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