Page 10 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

“Not like this,” I tell him, leaning in. “Creature University’s vet program is the original. They treat regular domestic pets and creature familiars. Shifter trauma, dragon-kin temperature regulation, magical reactions—nobody else teaches this stuff at this level. I want my own clinic someday. If I can handle a wolf’s dog or a witch’s cat without panicking, I’ll be ten times better at my job.”

Boone looks at me, his amber eyes completely steady. “You really give a shit about this.”

“Of course I do.”

“No, I mean you really care.” He reaches into his bag. “Alright. Then we’re not just fixing one bad grade. We’re fixing the whole semester.”

He drops five different colored pens onto the wooden table with a loud clatter.

I stare at them. “What are you doing?”

“Making a schedule.”

“Boone, why does a starting football player own five color-coded pens?”

“Six,” he corrects, pulling out a green one.

I grab his wrist before he can uncap it. “Stop. This is concerning.”

His skin is hot under my fingers, solid muscle and rough warmth. He doesn’t pull away—just looks down at my hand on his wrist, then up at my face.

I let go instantly, clearing my throat. “I’m not doing six a.m. study blocks.”

“I wasn’t going to write that.” He clicks the blue pen. “What’s Monday morning?”

“Eight a.m. anatomy.”

He writes 7:15 AM - BREAKFAST in bold letters.

“Hey!” I protest. “You can’t schedule my food.”

“You went ten hours without eating on Tuesday. You can’t be trusted.”

“I was busy!”

“You were starving,” he says, ignoring my glare as he blocks out my classes, lab hours, and study windows. He actually listens, though—leaving my Friday nights open for Delilah and making sure I have real breaks between lectures.

When he’s done, the whole week looks organized. Doable.

I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the page.

Boone grins. “Thought my pens were concerning?”

“They are. The system is just barely acceptable.”

By the time we pack up, it’s past eight. My shoulder is throbbing from hauling my heavy canvas bag around all day. As we step outside into the chilly night air, I roll it with a quiet wince.

Boone doesn’t even ask. He just reaches out, slides the heavy strap off my shoulder, and slings my bag over his own back next to his gym duffel.

I stop on the sidewalk. “Did you just rob me?”

“Your shoulder hurts.”

“I can carry my own shit, Kinkaid.”

Boone stops and turns to look down at me in the dim streetlights. He hands me back my binder, but keeps the bag firmly on his shoulder.

“I know you can take care of yourself, Maisie. That doesn’t mean you have to make everything harder just to prove it.”