Three

CHAPTER THREE

 Miles' POV

I thought yesterday was the rock bottom of my existence. I really did. 

Getting exiled from Harvard, showing up at this absolute non-place, having a full-blown mental breakdown in a public restroom, and then getting caught mid-sob by two enormous, good-looking strangers—one of whom was my primary tormentor—felt like the universe was genuinely running a ‘How Much Can Miles Take?’ experiment.

Turns out, the universe is a terrible sadist and it decided to dial the experiment up to eleven.

I was sitting in the corner of my depressing closet-dorm, trying to force myself to look at the course catalogue, when my phone buzzed with an email notification. 

It was from the Dean’s office, confirming my academic orientation appointment. My eyes scrolled down the block text.

Required Academic Supervision and Transfer Integration Mentor. 

 Great. Expected. I need someone to hold my hand and make sure I don’t mess up whatever pathetic, temporary future I have here.

I kept reading. Your assigned academic supervisor: Drew King.

I actually choked on my own spit. My whole body went rigid. I stared at the screen, blinking rapidly, trying to make the name change to literally anything else. 

Nope. Drew. Just Drew.

Drew. 

I'd heard people talk about him while I ran out of the bathroom yesterday. So yeah, I bloody knew who the heck he was. 

He was the riffraff who thought calling me Little Blue was cute. It wasn't. It was plain embarrassing. 

It was more depressing to think all the times he'd found me, I was either being jumpy or clumsy…..

Or, worst of all, being huddled on a bathroom floor, sobbing like a rejected toddler. 

The irony was so thick I could practically choke on it. I’d lost a golden future at Harvard due to a scandal, and my penance was being supervised by the one person on this entire campus who had witnessed me at my absolute lowest and most humiliating. 

This wasn't a transfer; this was a personalized circle of hell.

I wanted to run. I wanted to email the Dean and claim religious reasons for refusing the assignment, but I knew I couldn't. I needed this credit. I needed this semester. I just needed to survive.

So, I dragged myself out of the dorm and headed to the library like the email instructed. I told myself, repeatedly, that I was going to be professional. I was Miles Donovan. I had a 4.0 GPA before the fall.

I knew how to conduct myself in an academic setting. I just had to treat Drew—Drew—like a really, really annoying, overgrown TA. I just had to be cold, efficient, and shut down any attempt at casual conversation.

I got there ten minutes early, sat down at the designated study table, and pulled out the single notebook I had deemed worthy of this sad transfer school. I had been waiting nearly fifteen minutes, my anxiety simmering just beneath the surface, when I heard the low thud of a bag hitting the floor beside me.

“Sorry I’m late, Little Blue. Had to hit the protein machine.”

I didn't even have to look up. That deep, rich voice could only belong to him. I slowly lifted my eyes.

He looked completely out of place in the quiet, hushed atmosphere of the library. 

He was wearing some tight, logo-emblazoned athletic shirt that did entirely too much justice to his shoulders, and he was holding a massive, neon-yellow shaker cup. He didn’t look tired or rushed. He just looked like the world bowed for him, and he had taken a detour because he felt like it.

He dropped into the seat across from me, that lazy, infuriating smirk plastered right across his face. I finally managed to speak, forcing my voice to be as flat and devoid of emotion as possible. I aimed for Arctic tundra.

“Mr. King. I believe we have a sixty-minute orientation. Let’s stick to the agenda outlined in the email. I prefer to maintain professional boundaries during this process.”

I watched his smirk actually deepen, transforming into a slow, knowing smile that made the dimples pop. 

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, instantly closing the space I had tried to create between us. The scent of him—something clean, like expensive soap mixed with sweat and the vanilla-y protein shake—was overwhelming in the quiet library.

“Professional boundaries. Got it, Miles.” He used my name like he was testing it out, drawing it out in a way that felt entirely too familiar. “But seeing as I’m your assigned guide, tutor, and probably the only person who knows you cry in the bathroom, I think we can skip the titles, don’t you?”

The heat flared up my neck. I could feel the awful, embarrassing blue tint starting to bloom. Damn him. I clenched my jaw so hard I thought I might crack a tooth.

“I only wish to complete this process efficiently and successfully,” I managed, trying desperately not to move when he leaned in even closer.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, his dark eyes dropped down from my face to my throat, right to the place where the skin was thinnest, where he could probably see the faint blue tint pulsing through. He was staring at my neck like he was reading my panic level directly off my carotid artery.

“So, Harvard, huh?” he asked, completely ignoring my request. He finally pulled his gaze away, meeting my eyes again. “What were you majoring in there? Philosophy? Something complicated?”

The shift in topic threw me off. It was almost... a normal question. “Pre-Law,” I answered automatically, dropping the cold voice for a second, feeling a strange, involuntary flicker of pride. “Political Science focus. Honors track.”

“Harvard,” he whistled softly, not in a mocking way, but genuinely impressed. His tone was suddenly gentle, and the smirk had softened into something that looked almost respectful. “That’s heavy, man. That’s a massive jump to make. That must suck.”

For one split second, the tension seemed to break. He wasn't the grinning jerk; he was just a guy, maybe even a nice one, acknowledging the heavy scale of my disastrous downfall. I actually opened my mouth to explain, maybe even relax a tiny bit, thinking, Okay, maybe this won't be pure torture.

“It’s temporary. I’ll transfer out,” I said, the defense coming automatically, but I didn't feel the need to be icy anymore.

“Hey, if you got into Harvard, you can handle anything here. That’s a good mindset, Miles.” He gave me a brief nod, a look of actual approval in his eyes.

And that’s when the library door swung open again, whatever brief truce I'd thought we had somehow established was shattered. 

I didn’t even see him clearly, but I knew it was the other one—the twin. The quiet, intense, hostile one who had yelled at Drew yesterday. 

Drake.

Drake didn’t even glance at me. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. It was like I was literally part of the furniture, which, honestly, felt better than the intense scrutiny Drew always gave me.

He walked straight up to the table, didn't say hello, didn't excuse himself. He just clamped a hand around the hood of Drew’s sweatshirt, which was resting on the back of his chair, and gave it a sharp tug. “We’re late. Get up. Come on.”

It was completely caveman. I blinked at the rudeness of the interruption. Drew, surprisingly, didn’t argue or snap back. He just grimaced, gathering his shake and his bag in one smooth, annoyed motion.

“Sorry, Miles. Gotta go. Urgent,” Drew said quickly, throwing me an apologetic look—a genuinely contrite look—over his shoulder as he was hauled to his feet by his twin.

I just watched them leave, completely stunned. As soon as the door to the library’s main section swung shut, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The silence returned. It was over. Thank God.

I felt a wave of relief wash over me, mixed with confusion about the weird possessiveness of the twin. I was already gathering my notebook, planning my immediate escape back to the safety of my dorm, when the voices drifted back clearly through the almost-closed door. They hadn't moved far.

It was Drake’s voice. “Think you can avoid him a bit? You're beginning to smell like him and I don't like it.”