Page 42 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

I said nothing.

"You don't strike me as someone who reads about serial killers for fun."

"I like understanding people."

He held my gaze for another second, then nodded once. The crowd started filing into the aisle around us.

"The project," he said as we stepped into the corridor. "Library at four? After gym."

I considered refusing, then nodded. “Fine.”

"See you then."

He headed toward his next class. I watched him go and headed the opposite way, wondering how much simpler this would be if he were more like his father. Easier to hate. Every small, decent thing he did chipped away at the case I had built against him. He was not his father. I was more certain of it every day, and more unsure what to do with that certainty.

After joint gym session with the men's team, during which Naomi managed to send me enough dirty looks to qualify as a workout all on their own, Jackson was waiting outside for me.

He leaned against the wall, head lowered in thought. The moment I stepped out, his attention lifted and locked on me.

"Ready?"

I nodded, adjusting my bag. "Let's go."

He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside me. We crossed campus without speaking, close enough that I felt the heat coming off him with every stride. At the library he held the door.

The place was nearly empty on Friday afternoon. We claimed a table near the back, spread out our materials, and settled into the project with barely a word.

I was noting details for the methodology section when he set his pen down. When I looked up, he was already watching me.

"I want you," he said. No buildup. No hesitation. Just the truth.

My cat went very still.

I set my pen down and leaned back, studying him. Among shifters, physical intimacy was instinct, as ordinary as hunger. No one performed elaborate pretenses about wanting what they wanted.

It hadn’t been that simple for me. What happened when I was thirteen broke something. Years of therapy, time, and the quiet persistence of shifter healing had put enough of it back together that I could function. It took years to understand that broken didn't mean gone. I managed it with casual sex instead. Brief encounters. Sometimes a single night, sometimes someone I saw now and then, but always on my terms. No staying. No vulnerability. Nothing that asked more than I was willing to give.

It had worked.

But this, with him, was different.

I stayed quiet for a long time, sorting through thoughts that refused to fit the boxes I’d built. He didn't interrupt. Didn't shift. Just waited.

“What exactly are you asking for?” I asked finally.

“You,” he answered. “All of it. Whatever you’re willing to give.” He paused, eyes steady on mine. “I’ve tried to stop thinking about you. I can’t. You’re the first thing in my head when I wake up and the last before I sleep. Everything in between is just noise until I see you again.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice low. “You’re sharp. Difficult. You give me almost nothing, and I still want all of you. I don’t know what that makes me.”

“Stubborn,” I said.

A faint, tired smile touched his mouth. “Probably. Doesn’t change anything.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy and alive. I could feel my cat pressing close, wanting.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I said finally. “But I’m thinking about it.”

Something shifted in his expression, quiet satisfaction, deep and restrained. He picked up his pen again.