Page 23 of Guarded Love

A hand shoots up near the back.

“What if we’re not sure yet?” asks a guy I vaguely recognize. “Like…can we switch roommates if something’s not working out?”

Professor Wallace sighs. “If there’s a problem, come to me. I’m not going to make anyone suffer through a week of passive-aggressive silence, but I’d prefer if you allattemptto coexist. Like adults.”

More laughter. I make a mental note to check who else from my department signed up just in case they couldn’t make it tonight.

Professor Wallace switches gears and flips the slide. “Quick reminders while I’ve got your attention. If you’re taking medication, make sure you bring enough for the full duration. I’m hoping to avoid tracking down a pharmacy if possible.”

She writes outHEALTH FORMS DUE: Dec 12in all caps.

I already turned mine in two days ago.

Behind me, someone flips a water bottle open too aggressively and gets a splash across the desk. They whisper a curse. Professor Wallace keeps going.

“There will be one free day at the end of the trip. That means no assigned activities, but I expect you to stay near the resort, check in with faculty, and donotbook an illegal jet ski excursion off a TikTok you found the night before. It’s happened. We’re not doing that again.”

My pen hovers. I look around the room. I don’t know anyone here well enough to guess who that TikTok jet ski person, but I’m also not surprised to find out this has happened before.

Then she clicks to the final slide: return flights and debrief.

“We’ll be flying out of San Juan early that Sunday,” Professor Wallace says, tapping her finger against the projected slide. “The group shuttle leaves the hotel at 8:15 a.m. sharp. No exceptions.”

A few groans ripple through the room. Someone mutters,“brutal,”under their breath.

Wallace just smiles. “You can survive this, I promise.”

I underline the flight time in my calendar, even though I’ve already done it once before. Double-checking details calms my brain and I have no plans on ever stopping that.

The meeting wraps a few minutes later.

I grab my things and shove them into my backpack before standing up. People are making their way toward the exit, all the while chatting about packing lists and how excited they are to be going on this trip. I sling my bag over one shoulder and walk toward the door as I mentally plan the quickest route back to the house.

The Political Science Department is usually quieter this time of day, because there may be only one or two evening classes happening right now. Thankfully, it also means not many people are walking the halls outside of the meeting I just got out of, making it easier for me to get out of here quicker.

Which is exactly how I like it.

My brain’s already moving through what the rest of the evening will entail. What I’ll eat, how long I can work before someone bugs me about something completely unrelated to whatever I’m doing. Hell, how much time I’ll be able to game tonight.

I take the back hallway near the vending machines and as I turn the corner, I collide with someone. Not shoulder to shoulder. Not just a graze.

A full-on collision.

Papers hit the ground. My backpack jerks to the side. I see a phone skid across the floor out of the corner of my eye.

“Shit—” I mutter, already reaching down instinctively. “Sorry, I didn’t?—”

Then I see who it is.

Willow Sanchez.

Her eyes widen as they fly up to meet mine. For a split second, the usual glare she has for me is gone, replaced by pure surprise. Then it slams back into place as if she just realized who she was looking at.

“Seriously, Dalton?” she snaps, already bending to scoop up her phone. It looks undamaged, screen thankfully intact. A few loose papers flutter around her feet.

“Didn’t see you,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended. I crouch down, gathering the papers and avoiding her gaze. My knuckles brush against the worn denim of her jeans as we both reach for the same page. A jolt, quick and unwelcome, snakes up my arm, and I pull back as if I’ve been burned.

She snatches the papers from my hand without a word, stuffing them haphazardly back into a folder she must have dropped. Standing up, she smooths down her sweater, adjusts the strap of her bag.

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