The Assignment

CALLA

With all due respect,” I say carefully, “I don’t think—”

“It’s non-negotiable, Miss Pierce,” he interrupts gently. “This arrangement works to both your benefit. You are in need of additional academic credit this semester, are you not?”

Heat floods my face. I nod yes, because while my grades are strong, my extracurriculars are weak. I don’t do clubs. I don’t do sports. I just study and that’s it.

“This tutoring position fulfills that requirement,” he continues. “Declining would mean forfeiting the credit.”

There it is. A choice without choice. I look at Ryder again and the air feels heavier.My pulse spikes severely until I drag my eyes away from him.

“Understood,” I say because I don’t have an option. I really need the credit.

That means every day or every other day with Ryder Monroe. The boy who nearly destroyed my best friend. The boy everyone calls dangerous. The boy who is still watching me like he knows something I don’t. Just like that, my entire senior year tilts on its axis.

Ryder leans back in his chair, calm and unbothered. Senior year was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be about surviving Miles and Brina one last time. Not this. Not him

*********

I tell myself this is just tutoring. Just a quiet hour in the library for extra credit. Just something to focus on that isn’t Miles and Brina and the way my chest still feels bruised every time I think about them. I get there ten minutes early on purpose because if I’m early, I’m in control. Or so I tell myself.

The library is almost empty. Just a few students doing homework or God knows what on the computers. The late afternoon sun stretches across the long tables. I turn my focus to prepare myself but...

He is already here.

Ryder Monroe sits at the far end of the study table he chose near the art section, his sleeves pushed up, pen resting between his fingers. A textbook is open in front of him, the signature Falcons jacket beside him but he hasn’t worn it so far. Not once.

He looks up when he hears my steps. There is no smile or smirk but my stomach tightens anyway.

“Pierce,” he says.

I set my bag down across from him. “Monroe.”

His mouth twitches, almost amused. “Are we going with last names?”

“It’s tutoring, not a social visit.”

He studies me for a second longer than necessary. Not in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It's like he is trying to figure me out.

I pull out my notebook and the assignment sheet. “We will start with chapter four. The practice questions at the end.”

“I already did them.”

My head snaps up. “You what?”

He turns the book toward me. Every question is answered neatly and correctly.

I blink. “You could have waited.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “You are upset I did the work?”

I hate that I don’t have a good answer.

“I’m not upset. I just—” I stop to reset. “We are supposed to go through it together otherwise I don’t get credit.”

He leans back in his chair, calm. “Okay. Go through it.”

Is he testing me? I don’t think so. He looks too serious.

I glance down at the first question. “Explain the economic impact of— ”

“Trade restrictions during the early Industrial Revolution,” he finishes easily. “They slowed industrial expansion at first but strengthened domestic production over time.”

My pen pauses mid air. “You memorized that?”

“No, I studied and understood it.”

The correction is subtle but precise. He doesn’t look bored or arrogant.

Something in me shifts. That doesn’t fit the story I have been telling myself for a year.

I clear my throat. “Fine. Then explain it in your own words.”

He does clearly and confidently with no hesitation.

I sit back slowly.

“So you don’t need a tutor,” I say before I can stop myself.

His gaze lifts to mine. “I didn’t say that.”

“You seem to know what you are doing. What am I doing here?”

“Working for extra credit. I thought that was already discussed.” His brows are slightly drawn. Then, “Relax, Pierce. I do need a lot of help in other subjects. History not so much.”

I swallow and look back down at the page. “Let’s move on.”

We work through another section. He answers most of it without help. When I correct him once, he listens without arguing. This isn’t what I expected.

I expected resistance, attitude, maybe recklessness.

Instead, he is focused and quiet.

Every now and then I feel his eyes on me, staring. It makes my skin hyper aware of everything.

“You always tap your pen when you are thinking too hard,” he says suddenly.

I freeze. “What?”

“You have done it five times.”

I immediately still my hand. “That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s distracting.”

“You are the one watching me.”

He doesn’t deny it. My pulse quickens for reasons I don’t understand.

We move to the next problem. I reread the instructions twice.

“You don’t trust your first read,” he says quietly.

I look up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“You always go back even when you were right the first time.”

“How would you know what I ‘always’ do?”

“I have had classes with you since sophomore year.”

“You have been observing me?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You observe people too.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Because I observe to survive. I observe so I don’t get blindsided.

I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “Focus on the assignment.”

A small silence settles between us. It is not awkward but it is charged.

I shift in my seat and lean forward to point at something in his notebook.

“Our answer here needs more detail—”

My shoulder brushes his. It’s brief, totally accidental. But the contact sends a current through me that makes me pull back immediately. He doesn’t move closer or away.

I straighten, annoyed at myself. I am not reacting to this. I am not.

My pen slips from my fingers and rolls off the table.

“Great,” I mutter.

We both bend down at the same time. Our hands reach and touch. His fingers close around mine instead of the pen. They are warm, still, and not gripping. The moment stretches until I look up.

He is closer than I expected, close enough that I can see the faint scar near his eyebrow. Close enough to notice the shift in his breathing. Neither of us pulls away. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

“You freeze when you are about to do something... different,” he says quietly. “Something you are unsure about.”

My throat tightens. “What are you talking about?”

His thumb shifts slightly against my knuckles.

“You are doing it now.”

My breath stumbles. I yank my hand back first and sit upright too quickly, knocking my knee against the table.

“I don’t freeze.”

“You do.”

“You don’t know me so stop analyzing me.”

“I know enough.”

Silence drops again, heavier this time. I grab my pen and stand abruptly. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“It’s been thirty minutes,” he says, looking at the time.

“I have other things to do.”

“Like avoiding me?”

I glare at him. “Like having a life.”

His jaw shifts slightly. “Right.”

I shove my notebook into my bag. “Next session is Wednesday.”

“I will be here.”

There is something about the way he says it certainly that makes my heart leap. I sling my bag over my shoulder, avoiding eye contact.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m a threat, you know?” he says suddenly.

My spine stiffens. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You flinch every time I am too close.”

I meet his eyes fully this time. “You are a threat. Your reputation precedes you, Monroe.” The words leave before I can think them over.

He doesn’t hesitate when he says, “Not to you.”

The conviction in his voice unsettles me more than anger would have.

I don’t respond. I can’t.

I turn and walk out of the library without looking back but my pulse won’t calm down. My hand still feels warm where he touched me and that’s the part that scares me.

I have spent a year believing Ryder Monroe is dangerous. Today was the first day I questioned why.