You never planned on tutoring the cockiest guy on campus. In fact, if someone had told you a few weeks ago that you’d be spending your Thursday evenings holed up in the off-campus house of Briar University’s infamous hockey bros, you would’ve laughed—politely, of course. But here you are. And you’re not exactly laughing.

The first time Garrett Graham asked you for help in Ethics, you said no. Flat out. Not because you didn’t need the extra money (your keyboard was on its last breath), and not because you didn’t recognize him—everyone knew who Garrett was. He was impossible not to know. That grin. That walk. That way of talking like the whole world was some kind of game he was already winning.

You just didn’t want to be another girl orbiting around the hockey team’s gravity.

But he kept asking. Politely, then persistently. With that irritating mix of self-assurance and something almost resembling sincerity. It wasn’t until he cornered you after class, rattling off the entire week’s reading in perfect order with just enough confusion in his expression to seem human, that you caved.

“Just until you pass the midterm,” you said.

You regret those words now, mostly because you’re still showing up to his house three weeks later.

The first time you walked into that house, you were greeted with a chorus of catcalls and a half-naked Logan doing bicep curls in the living room like it was a stage. Dean winked at you from the kitchen, asking if you liked tequila. Tucker offered you a protein shake with an uncomfortably long stare. You ignored them all.

Garrett just smirked from the staircase and told you, “Don’t mind the circus. The animals are mostly harmless.”

His room is the only space in the house that doesn’t smell like beer and testosterone. Surprisingly neat. Hockey gear stacked in one corner, a few framed jerseys on the wall, and a desk cluttered with notebooks that look more used than you expected. The first time you noticed that, you started to suspect Garrett wasn’t as dense as he pretended to be.

Now, you know he isn’t.

He’s still infuriatingly smug sometimes, but he listens when you speak. He asks good questions. He remembers what you say—not just about ethics, but about Chopin and your late-night piano practices and how your roommate keeps burning toast at 2 a.m. Sometimes, you catch him watching you while you explain something, like he’s trying to figure out a riddle and you’re the answer. You pretend not to notice.

But you do.

It’s a slow shift. At first, he was just a job. Now, he’s a distraction. And maybe worse, he’s becoming someone you don’t automatically want to escape the second your hour is up.

Tonight is another tutoring session. You’re seated cross-legged on his bed with your laptop open and notes spread between you like a barrier you’re starting to wish was thinner. He’s sitting at his desk, half-turned toward you, a pencil in his mouth and a crease between his brows that makes you forget for a second who he is outside this room.

“Okay,” you say, pointing to the highlighted sentence in his book. “So what does Kant mean by acting from duty instead of inclination?”

He leans back, arms crossed behind his head like he owns the universe. “I’m just saying—if I hold the door for someone because I want to, doesn’t that still count as being a good person?”

You roll your eyes. “Only if your ego doesn’t take up the whole hallway.”

He grins, that cocky, lazy grin that used to make your blood boil and now just… makes you warm.

“You wound me, Wellsy.”

You shake your head and return to your notes.