Chapter 5 – Cracks in the Armor

Chapter 5 – Cracks in the Armor

(Eli POV)

I wasn’t expecting him to actually show up.

Dante Cruz didn’t strike me as the type to keep appointments unless they involved weights, sweat, or something with a scoreboard. But there he was, leaning against the back wall of the library like the shelves were props built just to frame him.

He looked out of place in the best possible way—broad shoulders swallowing his hoodie, dark hair curling just enough to seem careless, eyes flicking over the rows of books like they were all written in code.

When his gaze landed on me, I almost dropped the stack of notes in my hands. “You’re on time,” I blurted, way too surprised.

His brow lifted. “You sound shocked.”

“Because I am. Athletes usually think clocks are optional.” I tried to sound casual, but the smile tugging at my mouth betrayed me.

He shrugged and took the chair across from me, dragging it back with a scrape that made two freshmen shush him from across the aisle. He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t.

“So,” I said, spreading my notes like I was unveiling treasure. “Today we’re tackling metaphor.”

He gave me a look that said he’d rather be running laps. “Metaphor.”

“Yes. You know, when something stands in for something else. Like—” I scanned the room, searching for inspiration. My eyes landed on him. Bad idea. “Like how your… um, hoodie is armor. You wear it like it’ll keep people out.”

Silence.

His jaw ticked, just once. Blink and you’d miss it. But I didn’t.

“Too much?” I asked quickly, pretending to flip through my notebook. My cheeks burned, and not from the fluorescent lights overhead.

He leaned back, crossing his arms, gaze steady on me. For a long beat, I thought he might shut down completely, retreat behind that unreadable mask he wore so well. But then he said, almost too low to catch: “Not wrong.”

The words lodged somewhere in my chest.

I cleared my throat and forced a grin. “See? Progress already. You didn’t even throw a book at me.”

He smirked, the faintest curve of his lips, but it was there. Small victories.

We fell into a rhythm after that—me explaining, him pretending not to listen, only to mutter the right answers a minute later. But every so often, his focus would drift. His hands clenched, his eyes clouded, and for a second it was like he wasn’t in the library at all.

I wanted to ask. God, I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. I wasn’t stupid enough to pry open doors that were obviously locked.

So instead, I tapped my pen against the table and said lightly, “For homework, you’re going to write three metaphors. About anything. Football, life, whatever. Surprise me.”

He groaned. “Homework?”

“Yes. You’re officially my student now. Deal with it.”

His glare was half-hearted, but his fingers tapped against the table—three sharp beats, like a tell I hadn’t yet learned to read. “Fine. But if I do this, you’re coming with me Saturday night.”

“Saturday?”

“Party. My team’s throwing one. You said you wanted me to make you less… weird.” His smirk returned, sharper this time. “This is step one.”

Oh.

My stomach swooped like I’d just stepped off the edge of a cliff. “Right. Yeah. Totally. Party. Love those.” My voice cracked on the last word, because apparently, my dignity had decided not to attend.

Dante’s smirk widened. “Can’t wait.”

And for a second, as the fluorescent light caught on his smile, I forgot every metaphor I’d ever known.