Page 84 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Who was that?" Madison asks from across the table, voicing what everyone is clearly wondering.

"A friend," I say, the word woefully inadequate. "He offered to bring coffee."

"Some friend," Kelly murmurs, eyebrows raised. "Does he bring coffee to all his 'friends,' or just the pretty ones?"

I feel heat rising in my cheeks. "Next question, Ethan?"

Ethan, still unaware of the undercurrents, launches into a complex scenario about privacy rights in genetic databases. I try to focus, to give a coherent answer, but my mind keeps drifting to Sanderson—the intensity in his eyes, the deliberate way he set down my coffee, the barely suppressed possessiveness in his stance.

My phone buzzes on the table, and I glance down at the screen.

I'll wait for you in the south parking lot. Take your time.

Not a question, not a suggestion. A statement. Normally, I'd bristle at being told what to do, at having decisions made for me without consultation. But there's something about Sanderson's quiet confidence, his assumption that I'll want to see him after my study session, that sends a thrill through me rather than irritation.

I tuck my phone away, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared coffee. For the next hour, I go through the motions of studying—answering Ethan's questions, contributing to group discussions, making notes in my already-crowded margins—but my mind is elsewhere, counting down the minutes until I can politely excuse myself.

At 7:45, Madison stretches and declares she's reached her brain capacity for the night. The group collectively begins to pack up, exchanging notes and confirming our next meeting time. I gather my books, trying not to appear rushed despite the anticipation humming through my veins.

"Want to grab dinner?" Ethan asks as we walk out of the library together. "A bunch of us are heading to the dining hall."

"Thanks, but I've got plans," I say, hoping my smile doesn't betray my eagerness to be elsewhere.

"Another time, then." He waves goodbye, jogging to catch up with the others as they head toward campus center.

I take the path to the south parking lot, my pace quickening with each step. The evening air is cool against my flushed skin, the weight of my backpack a counterbalance to the lightness in my chest.

Sanderson's car is parked under a lamppost, casting a pool of yellow light across the asphalt. He's leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed, watching me approach. When he sees me, he straightens, his entire posture shifting from casual to alert in an instant.

"Hi," I say, suddenly shy as I stop in front of him.

"Hey." His voice is low, warm. "How was studying?"

"Productive." I adjust my backpack strap, oddly nervous. "Thanks for the coffee. It was exactly what I needed."

He opens the passenger door for me. "Hungry?"

"Always," I smile, climbing in.

He closes the door and walks around to the driver's side, giving me a moment to collect myself. It's strange how quickly this has become familiar—sitting in his car, watching him slide behind the wheel, the unique scent of him filling the enclosed space.

"So," he says once we're both settled. "Chick-fil-A okay? We can go somewhere else if you'd prefer."

"Chick-fil-A sounds perfect." My stomach growls as if to emphasize the point. "I've been living on protein bars and coffee for the past two days."

He frowns slightly as he starts the engine. "That's not sustainable, you know. Even genius brains need actual meals."

"Says the guy who probably lives on protein shakes and energy bars during season."

"Touché." He pulls out of the parking lot, navigating easily through the campus streets. "But at least I mix in some actual food occasionally."

"Like Chick-fil-A?" I tease.

"Exactly. Balanced nutrition at its finest."

We fall into easy conversation as he drives, discussing classes, upcoming exams, the latest campus gossip. There's no mention of the study room, of Ethan sitting close to me, of the look in Sanderson's eyes when he saw us together. But it hangs between us.

At the drive-through, he orders without consulting me—a spicy chicken sandwich meal for himself, a regular chicken sandwich meal for me, and an extra order of waffle fries to share. I'm surprised to find I don't mind this small presumption. He's paying attention, remembering what I like.

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