Page 8 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

She looks at me, and something in her expression softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You literally talk about warding theory in your sleep. Last week you spent forty minutes explaining threshold boundaries to me while I was trying to eat cereal. You’re going to walk in there and show them exactly what you can do.”

Delilah grins, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Okay. Okay, I’m going to review my notes one more time before I lose my mind.”

“Good luck,” I say, grabbing my books again. “And hey—when you pass, I’m buying you coffee. The expensive kind from The Hearth.”

“Deal.” She picks her book back up, already looking more grounded. “Now go before you’re late for class. And try not to bounce off any more support columns.”

“No promises.”

Boone texts me Thursday afternoon right after my lab.

Boone: Something different tonight. Meet me at The Hearth at six-thirty. Trust me.

Maisie: Okay.

I don’t even think to ask why we aren’t going to the library. That lack of hesitation should probably scare me, but I have too much anatomy homework to unpack it.

The Hearth is tucked into one of the oldest brick buildings in the middle of campus, covered in ivy and looking more like a historic house than a coffee shop. Inside, it’s warm and smells like roasted espresso and old wood.

The walls are covered in framed black-and-white photographs from the university’s early days. I stop in front of one from the late thirties showing a mixed group of students on the library steps. A shifter in the front has his claws out. A guy behind him has a tail curled around his leg. A human girl is wedged between them, laughing her ass off.

It’s weird seeing it like this. In class, 1930s integration feels like dry dates on a slide. Here, they just look like regular college kids dealing with tough classes and bad dining hall food—only while making history.

“That’s my great-great-uncle on Dad’s side.”

I jump and swing around, nearly smacking Boone in the ribs with my bag. “Jesus! You can’t sneak up on people like that.”

Boone laughs, catching my shoulder to steady me. “I walked normally. You’re just jumpy.”

“You’re six-foot-four. You should come with a warning siren.”

“I’ll wear a bell next time.” He steps up beside me, pointing at a tall guy in the photo with unmistakable wolf ears. “That’s Nathaniel.”

I glance at the picture. “The one who proposed on the library steps?”

Boone looks down at me, surprised. “You remembered that?”

“You told me Tuesday. It was weird enough to stick.”

“He wanted to wait until she graduated so he wouldn’t distract her from classes,” Boone says, leaning against the wall. “Margaret found out, told him he was an idiot, and made him propose two weeks later.”

I snort. “I like Margaret.”

“Everyone liked Margaret. She ran the campus infirmary for twenty-eight years and spent most of that time telling Nathaniel he was wrong about things.”

“Sounds like a solid marriage.”

“Best one in the family.” Boone smiles and nods toward the corner. “Come on. Got us a table.”

I follow him to a small booth in the back and freeze. Sitting on the table in front of an empty chair is a large paper cup.

I pick it up and read the label: Extra caramel, whole milk, single shot.

“How the hell do you know this?” I ask.

Boone drops into the booth and pulls out his notebook. “You told me.”