Page 58 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

Boone: Say it again slower.

Maisie: You. Earned. That.

Boone: Good. Don't forget it.

Boone: I’m also an exceptional tutor.

Maisie: Several of our tutoring sessions ended with me straddling your lap in the stacks.

Boone: Student engagement. Critical pedagogical strategy.

Maisie: You're unbelievable.

Boone: I prefer exceptional.

Maisie: I'm telling everyone I did it alone.

Boone: You did. I reserve the right to brag about you anyway.

The dots linger.

Maisie: ...fine. You can brag a little. Meet me at lunch?

Boone: Try stopping me.

When class ends, Tate shoves his notebook into his bag and sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world. "The eighty-nine?"

"Creature Phys."

"Great. Tell her Mikey and I say congratulations so you don't spend the next four hours reciting her study schedule at me."

"I don't do that."

"You color-coded her flashcards, Kinkaid. In four shades of blue."

"It was an intuitive filing system."

"It was embarrassing," Tate says, though he's fighting a grin as he claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Go find your girl."

I meet Maisie in the dining hall twenty minutes later.

She's already sitting by the window, completely in her element. She navigates this place like she owns it now—knows which hot station has the good soup, knows the rush hours, has Conrad at the breakfast counter saving her the dark roast in a travel mug without her having to ask.

"Mikey already texted me," she says when I slide into the chair across from her, shoving half a sandwich in my direction. "He said I'm officially smarter than you."

"He's right."

"I knew it." She grins, her eyes bright and teasing. "The scholarship's safe, my average is sitting pretty, and I'm pulling Bs in a sophomore lecture."

"Because you worked your ass off."

"I did." She reaches across the table and tangles her fingers with mine, giving my hand a firm, deliberate squeeze. "And you brought me snacks and listened to me complain for forty minutes straight."

"High-performance fuel delivery."

Delilah drops her tray onto the table and slides into the chair next to Maisie without asking, tossing an apple at my chest. "Stop making heart eyes at each other over dining hall fries. Some of us are trying to eat in peace."

"She got an eighty-nine," I tell Delilah.

"I know. She sent it to the group chat in all caps twenty seconds after it posted." Delilah smirks at Maisie. "I told you that flashcard drill would work."

"It did," Maisie says, beaming. "Everything worked."

She leans back, looking entirely settled, in her seat, in this room, on this campus. The terrified trace-blood freshman who walked in here scared of losing her funding is gone. In her place sits a girl who knows exactly where she belongs.