Page 9 of You Owe Me

“Have fun defrauding death with your gluten-free breakfast,” I murmur.

He catches my wrist gently, tugging me around into his lap before I can escape. I let out a yelp—half laugh, half surprise—as he pulls me down into a kiss that’s way too long for how much work he allegedly has to do.

It’s soft. And sure. And full of everything he doesn’t say.

When we break apart, his lips are still close to mine. “Stay out of trouble.” His eyes are locked on mine. “No fires. No protests. No arguing with your professors about dolphin neurology.”

“That was one time.”

“And a three-day academic review.”

“I regret nothing.”

And I don’t. Not when it comes to him. Not when it comes to fighting for the people I love, even if that means annoying them into eating flaxseed bagels and going to class once in a while.

I kiss his temple one more time, then start toward the bathroom. “Try not to have a caffeine-fueled heart attack while I’m gone.”

“Bring back something with real sugar,” he calls.

“Bring back your ethics textbook and we’ll talk.”

CHAPTER THREE

Rumor has it, she was making out with the dean’s son under a tree.

Ainsley

“I swear, if I have to read one more paper about zooplankton migration patterns, I’m going to throw myself into the ocean and become one with the krill,” Eliza groans, flopping back onto the grass beneath the massive oak tree that’s become our unofficial study spot.

“Please do,” I say, not looking up from my textbook. “I’ll tell your parents you died bravely in the name of plankton-based protest.”

She groans louder with one arm over her eyes. “Seriously, I can’t do it anymore. If I learn one more thing about marine snow, I’m going to snap.”

I finally close my book and glance up at the giant oak tree above us, the leaves casting patchy light across the quad. Our unofficial study spot is blissfully quiet today. East quad’s mostly empty, which is exactly how I like it: minimal people, maximum grass, tolerable sunlight, and one best friend having an academic meltdown.

Eliza peeks at me from beneath her arm. “Speaking of cold, unfeeling creatures, how’s everyone’s favorite emotionally repressed storm cloud?”

“Maverick is thriving,” I say, tone flat. “By which I mean he’s still working eighteen hours a day, growling at his inbox, and surviving almost exclusively on coffee and disdain.”

“Gah, I love him,” she says dreamily. “Still can’t believe you landed the dark prince of Havemeyer. What’s it like dating a guy who terrifies half the student body just by existing?”

“It’s just normal.” Honestly, I don’t know how to describe it.

But I know what she means. There’s a reason everyone whispers when he walks into a room. Maverick’s the kind of guy who makes people sit up straighter. Say less. Assume he already knows what they’re hiding. He’s sharp in every way: mind, mouth, stare. All precision. All threat.

But they don’t see the other stuff.

They don’t see him scrolling through late-night fire code reports because Pops owns the building, and he wants it to pass inspection the first time.

They don’t see him watching me when I’m not looking. How his whole face softens for half a second before he hides it again.

They don’t see him go quiet when my hands shake from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, and just hand me water without making a big deal of it.

They see the storm. I get the stillness inside it.

“He made Jeremy Watkins cry at poker night just by looking at him.” Eliza flips onto her stomach. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did,” I say. “For the record, Jeremy cries at mint commercials. Maverick just happened to blink in his direction.”

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