Archive of Our Own

You can see that gleaming canine smile coming from a mile away. Valko.

Here he goes again.

It's been like this since the very first class of the semester. You don't know what the hell you even did to earn such incessant attention beyond existing. Was it the fact that you accidentally bumped into each other trying to get inside the lecture hall for your physics class before the doors locked? And did he think it was some kind of weird fate that the only two seats left were next to each other in the very last row? Or had he seen you somewhere before, or the other way around, and you just didn't realize it? Or had he noticed how you kept throwing him glances every time he had a question in the first two classes alone? (Seriously, who asks that many questions about a syllabus?

Whatever it is, Valko's had eyes on you ever since, in every way he can have eyes on you. Asking to borrow your notes because he didn't really get what the professor said, asking if you could check his work in case he misunderstood the question or used the wrong formula. Hell, one time he even asked about the perfume you were wearing because he couldn't help but notice it. Did the guy know anything about personal space? Or was his sense of smell just that good?

(No, seriously, was it? You could have sworn you'd only put on a couple of spritzes.)

Tara thinks the whole thing is cute; she told you as much during your downtime between classes, while tidying up your shared dorm room. But then, Tara thinks every interaction you have with a guy is cute. You don't know why she hopes beyond hope for things to go anywhere with anyone. But they're not going anywhere with the guy who makes your lattes in the morning, or even the guy who rings you up. And they're not going anywhere with the random guy in the dining hall who let your know that you'd dropped your student ID. And they definitely, most certainly aren't going anywhere with Valko. It didn't matter how many horoscopes read or tarot cards they drew.

(Why did he want to know what perfume you were wearing?)

So when Valko catches you eye from across the quad, just days before your physics midterm exam, you know you're in for a headache. And you know it's too late to pretend you didn't see him. He's already bounding your way. At this point, you're convinced he's never even heard of walking.

Nobody's ever run to you like that. So free and uncaring and focused on you. It's kind of odd. You haven't quite decided if it's unwelcome. He doesn't really give you the chance to, anyway.

"Not bad," he says by way of greeting, crouching down beside you to take refuge from the sun. Even for all his attempts at charisma, his voice is gruff, startling among the shade of the tree and the wrinkles of the blanket you brought along. "You really know how to find a good spot to relax, huh?"

Clearly the guy doesn't know how to take a hint. You sigh, hoping the depth of it conveys your discontent, and set your notebook and reading aside. It sure isn't like you have three other classes' worth of assignments to slog through or anything. "What is it?"

Valko throws up his hands in defense, or maybe surrender. "Whoa, hey, what's with the black cat behavior? Can't a friend say hello?"

You fold your arms, giving him the most unimpressed up-and-down you can muster. Since when did he appoint himself as anything beyond your classmate? "You know cats and dogs don't get along, right?"

He tilts his head, feigning innocence, unfazed by the blade of your words. "Even golden retrievers?"

"Even if you were a golden retriever, a golden retriever is still a dog, isn't it?"

You shift on the blanket to put some distance between you, and to your chagrin he takes it as an invitation. He settles down beside you, sitting back on his hands and stretching out the full length of his body. Like he means to show off the ripple of muscles in his arms. (Seriously, what is his problem? Sure, it's still warm enough to get away with wearing a tank top in the fall, but come on.)

"You still haven't told me what you want," you point out, distracting him from studying you—and the unwrapped bar of chocolate beside you—for too long.

His request is as direct as the rest of him, as every other one he's impressed upon you these last few weeks. "Study with me. For the midterm, I mean."

You narrow your eyes at him; you hope it's enough to mask the incredulity stealing across your face. "And why would I want to do that?"

Valko looks at you like you're the one with rocks for brains. "Because we both need to study?"

He really doesn't get it, does he? "Why would I want to study with you, Valko?"

If he had a tail, you have a strong suspicion he'd be wagging it. Instead he channels it into some too-satisfied smile. Weirdo. "It's so rare when you say my name, Princess. I was starting to think you'd forgotten it."

Princess? Really? "Did I say you could call me that?"

"Did you say I couldn't?"

Swiftly, you change the subject. "You have the textbook for the class, and all the assignments—which I already helped you with, by the way—and the entire Internet. You have our professor's office hours. Hell, we even have a TA. And you seem to think all of those pale in comparison to, what? The person who just so happens to sit next to you in class?"

Valko shrugs. "You just explain it better."

"Do I explain it better, or do you just actually pay attention when I talk and not when the professor says it?"

Valko's smile morphs into a grin, and you can't tell if it's meant to skew sheep or wolf. "Your guess is as good as mine."

(It isn't. You already know the answer.)

"What do you say?" His eyes are drifting toward the chocolate bar again before they flick back up toward your face. "You, me, a few books, tomorrow? Only four days until the exam, y'know. Clock's ticking."

He draws out all the syllables, as if doing so might sway you to his side. All it does is make you pinch the bridge of your nose. "Even if I agreed, what am I getting out of it?"

He looks himself up and down, as best as he can from his own angles. "I mean…"

Your voice takes a turn for the flat. "Not really doing it for me."

Valko claps his hands together in prayer and bows his head. A few more moments, and you're convinced he might actually start prostrating to you or something. As though you're some god of physics. As though you're a god of anything. It'd be almost endearing if it didn't look so pathetic. "Come on, please. I'll never ask you for anything after this, cross my heart and hope to die."

Part of you thinks he'd better get to crossing, then. "That's not true, and we both know it. As soon as we get our grades, you'll come asking for more help on all fours, all the way up until the final exam."

He lifts his head, expression half-blank. "You want me to?"

He's actually going to kill you. Or you might kill him. The jury's still out.

"That perfume you like," he says, like he's grasping at every straw he can manage. Even the ones just out of reach. "The one from before, what's it called? I'll buy you a new bottle if you help me, I swear. You haven't been wearing it lately, right? Did you run out? What's it have, cedarwood or something? Or jasmine?"

Okay, now you're definitely sure he has no concept of personal space. No one can pick up notes like that from a respectable distance. "You're not seriously going to buy me perfume just to help you study."

Valko's expression doesn't change. Your stomach drops.

"Oh my God," you say. "You're serious."

"Course I'm serious."

Fine. You'll call his bluff. Him showing up without it, or not even showing up at all, might be vindication enough. Might even be enough for him to leave you alone. Besides, he might actually end up on all fours, and the last thing you want is a scene. "Tomorrow," you tell him, deadpan, unwavering. "Campus library, 6:00. You get two hours, and no more."

Valko's whole face lights up from the first word, that invisible tail going downright haywire. You might as well have told him he won the lottery or something. "I'll be there," he says, like it's an entire wedding instead of a study session. He gives you some complicated handshake, the kind that makes you worry you might have missed out on some inside joke or universal childhood experience; he doesn't even relent when your hand is unresponsive motionless against his. Instead, he makes a grab for the pen so precariously set on your notebook, and he curls a broad hand around your wrist, and he scrawls a string of digits and his name along your palm. It takes everything in you not to show him that it tickles—even more not to shiver at the sudden warmth of his touch.

"You're the best," he says, all sharp-toothed smiles and gleaming gold eyes. He claps you on the shoulder, just once, and then he's jumping to his feet, jogging off in the direction he came from. The last he leaves you with are a salute, and a shout of "SIX O'CLOCK," and a strangely palpable absence as the ink on your hand starts to dry.

It's the first time, you think, that a boy has ever been excited to see you.

———

Valko's already standing outside the library doors at 5:59.

Part of you—well, most of you—is actually surprised he showed up. The rest of you is surprised that he's early. Usually he's out of breath, scrambling to get in his seat at the last possible minute, looking like he'd lost track of time at the gym and only just remembered he had an academic obligation. Today, he actually looks pretty put-together, with a decent-looking red knit sweater and horn-rimmed glasses set upon the bridge of his nose. Even his backpack looks decidedly full, and even though he's plugged into his headphones, he's still checking the time every few seconds on the inside of his wrist. It's a total 180 from who you're used to seeing in class, even from the guy who borrowed your blanket for far too long. He's punched the usual bravado, at least in appearances, down to a healthy-looking confidence. You suppose you could get behind that. You suppose, even briefly, that red looks good on him. It goes with his hair.

Arms still folded too tightly around your textbook, you shuffle into his line of view, shifting your weight to one uncertain hip. "I guess you meant business," you say, taking a deep interest in his sneakers.

His laugh is a rumble in the base of his throat, one you feel all the way down to the soles of your sneakers. "Course I meant business. I always mean business."

As far as you're concerned, he doesn't mean business until that bottle is in your hands. "Let's just get this over with."

You gently push past him, reaching for the library door, but he gets to it first. His hand curls around the handle finger by finger, the same way he held onto your wrist just yesterday, and it takes little effort for him to pull the door open. When you turn, he's gesturing inside with a sweep of his hand and a nod of his head.

"After you, Princess."

You grit your teeth, clutching your books to your chest, and duck under his arm. Anything to get inside as quickly as possible.

Valko tails you all the way to the circulation desk, and then to the conference room you reserved. You don't know which is worse: him walking behind you like some kind of creep, or the thought of him beside you, acting as though he knows anything about you. You don't have to wonder once the glass door of the conference room closes behind you; he saps all your thought the moment he leans back and slides to the floor.

You squint down at him. "What are you doing." You don't even have the wherewithal to make it a proper question.

He shrugs, pulling out his notebook, as though the answer should be obvious. "Floor time. Everyone studies better this way, no?"

One eyebrow rises, and you take a seat in one of the swivel chairs. "No."

To his credit, he's actually a pretty good study. In the time you spend together, he focuses when you read aloud from the textbook, and he puts in the effort here and there on the practice problems you assign him. He focuses so deeply that his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose, and even when he pushes them back up they go sliding down again. It's almost cute.

Almost.

The work that he shows you when you eventually compare notes is messy, but at least it's correct. He even writes down the formulas and circles his answer the way you do. For someone so bent on being a golden retriever, he's certainly a bit of a copycat. You hope this doesn't end up calling your academic honesty into question.

The more time passes, the more comfortable the floor looks, at least for a break. Maybe you can be subtle about it when you slip out of your chair and settle on the carpet. And maybe, if it were anyone but Valko, it would be subtle. But he notices you out of the corner of his eye almost instantly, and the smirk on his face is so self-satisfied, that you wish you could wipe it off yourself.

"You're wearing glasses." It's the first thing you've said in the last hour that isn't directly related to the exam.

Valko hums, removing his pencil from between his teeth. You wouldn't be surprised if the damn thing had chew marks all over it. "Only when I'm studying."

He doesn't think you've been thinking about those glasses this whole time, does he? "That'd explain why you keep struggling, then. You never wear them in class."

Valko raises an eyebrow, amused instead of suspicious. "So you notice me?"

Your face falls flat. "Just do the next problem."

He sets right to work then. Just like a damn dog.

The rest of your time together goes alarmingly smooth. He only leans your way to ask you to check his work. When he gets it right, he clenches his fist in triumph; when he makes a mistake, his shoulders slump. But he tries again. And you think you might be hallucinating it, but every time he settles back, he gets a couple of inches closer to you. Except you're not hallucinating it, because by the time your room reservation is up, his knee is practically brushing yours, and you can definitely make out the teeth marks on the end of his pencil. Shockingly, he doesn't look too awkward or too shameless about it. He just carries himself as though being by your side is the natural way of things.

"You're a real lifesaver, y'know that?" That's what he says when he looks at the clock on the wall and snaps his notebook shut. "Seriously, I owe you one."

"You're right," You give him an expectant look, your eyes following him as he stands. "You do."

He's mid-stretch when he seems to catch what you mean, arms overhead, and you wish he'd catch it a little faster, because the way his sweater lifts and flashes the skin between the hem and the waistband of his boxers is doing you no favors at all. "Oh, yeah," he says, and then he's unzipping his backpack, rummaging around until he pulls out a small aqua-colored box. "This the one?"

He didn't.

He tosses the box your way; you're willing to bet he doesn't know his own strength, because you have to lean to the side to catch it, and you nearly drop it in the process. You study the box from every angle, ready to deign to accept it despite the most minimal mistake, except…

Except it's perfect. It's exactly the one you've been wearing.

When you look up, Valko is leaning against the conference room table, tapping the corner of his phone against his temple with a grin. Flashing on the screen is the text thread between the two of you; the only messages are the details of the room reservation and his too-eager reply.

"Next time, just send me the link," he says. "I love a chase as much as the next guy, but figuring that out hurt my brain."

"You…" You press your tongue hard against the roof of your mouth. Pride is such a dry, heavy thing to swallow. "You actually bought it."

"Course I did. What do you take me for, some loser who shows up for a while, gets your attention, and then leaves?"

Your grip on the box tightens. "It's expensive. And this is the 90-milliliter bottle, too."

He's getting a little lazy with the shrugging. This time he manages it with only one shoulder. "What can I say? Knowledge is priceless."

"At least let me pay you back."

"You did pay me back," he says. "You helped me study."

"Two hours of studying is nothing," you protest. "If this were an on-campus job, I'd owe you something like twenty hours of studying."

Something in Valko's eyes flashes as he tilts his head, his brow settling into a devious sort of contemplation. Almost instantly, you regret speaking.

"So what you're saying," he murmurs, "is that you'd be willing to owe me… oh, I don't know… eighteen more hours? Something like two hours a week until the final exam?"

Your throat goes dry. The pride gets stuck halfway down. "There's only eight more weeks in the semester. Or do you need help with your math skills, too?"

"Reading week," he says. Like he pulled the damn calendar out of his back pocket. So much more wolf than sheep. "Well? Do we have a deal, Princess? Or should I take that bottle back?"

You have to admit, Valko drives a pretty hard bargain. Like this, still leaning against the table, still giving you the golden glint of his eyes, he knows exactly how to make danger look dauntless. Like this, he seems exactly the sort of person that your grandmother used to warn you about—the kind that hold a sheep in one hand and a wolf in the other. But Grandma raised you to be kind and wary in equal measures. To accept others with grace and gratitude. You wouldn't dare be ungrateful. Especially to someone just looking for your help, no matter how measly it is.

You drop the box into your schoolbag. "Just until the semester ends."

Valko's hand flexes where it's wrapped loosely around the strap of his backpack. "Just until the semester ends."

———

The morning of the midterm, you put on the perfume. Just a spritz or two. Just enough to tell Valko that his money didn't go to waste.

For all your studying, the exam feels like hell. Not because you don't know the material—actually, the study guide did wonders for you. But every time you breathed, the hints of jasmine and cedarwood and blackcurrant got to you. And every time you did, you'd remember Valko rummaging through his bag for that aqua-colored box. And then you'd start thinking about how long it must have taken him to figure out what you were wearing, how much he racked his brain, how many stores he must have visited. And then, horror of horrors, you remember how close he was to you in that conference room, on that picnic blanket, and how he stretched into all the space he knew he deserved to take, and how his stupid fucking sweater lifted up just so. You must have clicked your pencil a hundred times trying to forget it. You must have failed just as much.

Valko's no better beside you. You don't know if he's actually struggling with the material, if he's one of those types who starts to do okay during study sessions but completely chokes during the test. You only notice, in the occasional glances you throw his way, that sometimes he has his pencil between his teeth again. And sometimes he stops and pinches his forehead, as though he might be able to wring the answers from his skull. And sometimes, when he breathes in deep to center himself, his whole body goes tense, and his Adam's apple dips in his throat, and he shudders before he dares to pick up his pencil again. And again, when you shift in your seat and cross your legs tight.

Good God. You cannot become a disaster. Especially not during midterms. What would Grandma think?

You both still have your exams when time is called; you don't know how far he got, but you at least managed to get to double-checking your work. You sigh, and so does he, and when you meet eyes as you're passing your exams forward, you catch the dip in his throat again. The flickering of gold when when he breathes in again.

"You're wearing it," he says as conversations around you rumble to life. His tone, for once, isn't teasing. It's so matter-of-fact, even surprised, that it scares you. It scares you to think he might find tenderness in something like this.

You freeze, and then you do the only think you can think to do: you gather your things in a hurry, and you make a beeline out of the lecture hall.

It's definitely not the smartest thing to do when you have to see him again in three days. Definitely not the smartest thing when you already know he's going to hold it over your head. That you're wearing perfume near him. That you're wearing his perfume.

You shouldn't think of it as his perfume.

(You can't help but think of it as his perfume.)

The conference rooms become a weekly reservation. Every Thursday at half past five, you tell Tara that you can't join her for dinner, that you have to put in a couple of hours at the library, that you'll make it up to her on the weekend. She always lets you go, bless her, and then you scuttle off to those looming glass doors. You start to learn that even if Valko only ever makes it to class by the skin of his teeth, he's always shockingly on time to study with you, two trusty cartons of chocolate milk beside his notes. He transforms, somehow, from that muscled migraine one seat over to someone who's strangely married to the books. Who idly twirls his pencil from his place on the floor while you're reading over the lecture notes, and is maybe a little too eager to use the dry erase board to scribble out his work before committing it to paper. Who revels in the learning, the more you get to know him.

If you were stupid, you'd start to think he turns into someone you wouldn't mind spending more than a couple of hours with each week. If you were stupid.

During a particularly quiet spell, somewhere between revisiting your draft of a lab report and reviewing the principles of momentum, Valko leans over and gently flicks your forehead. "What's with the face?" he asks. "Aren't you a little too pretty to start getting wrinkles?"

"I'm focused," you shoot back, all barbed words as your fingers fly across your keyboard. The compliment would be easier to take if it didn't come from him. If it didn't come from him like breathing. "Have you considered doing that? Preferably before our next test?"

"Test, test, test." He slumps back against the wall with a heavy thud; any students the next room over must hear it as deeply as you feel it. "Don't tell me all you do is study, Princess."

"When did I say you could keep calling me that?"

"When did you say I should stop calling you that?"

"And you?" You tap on the keys without particularly typing anything. "Don't tell me this is the only time you study."

"What can I say? You're good at keeping me focused." He stretches his arms over his head, makes a whole damn show of it. You have to stop being the audience. You have to stop watching. "C'mon. Do you really just go between your classes and your room? Nothing in between? Clubs, sports, adventures? Nothing?"

"I go…" You shift uncomfortably. "Other places. I have friends and stuff."

"Yeah. Real convincing." He scribbles down a few more notes, tapping the corner of his textbook with a smile. "You ever been hiking?"

You shake your head. Walks are one thing, But hiking? Bugs and heat and an endless trek upward, and for what?

"I think everyone oughta try it once," he says. "Everyone who can, I mean. Just think about it. Imagine it for a second. Humor me, would you?" He leans over, closing your laptop. At least he has the decency to be gentle with it when he sets it on the floor beside you. And then he's gesturing toward you, two fingers swiping downward.

Well, if this is how he wants to waste his study time, then sure. Why the hell not.

You let your eyes fall shut, hands folded loosely in your lap, and he guides you to lean back against the wall. His touch is surprisingly gentle, such a stark contrast to all the searing, insistent warmth from the day he wrote his number on your hand. Maybe he wants, just for a moment, to be the imagination you fell into.

"Picture it," he murmurs, the softest you've ever heard him. "The rustle of the leaves under your shoes, the warm sun on your skin, the wind on your face the higher you go. It gets a little colder every thousand feet or so. It's sharp, but it's nice. The burn in your muscles feels like that, too. It hurts, all the way up your thighs, and yeah, you want it to stop for a while. But you've already made it this far, so why not keep going?" The more he talks, the more a smile starts to bleed into his voice. It's a subtle sort of passion, the more you think about it, but he uses it to string the words together. To put the picture of nature in your head.

You dig your nails into the back of your hand. "And then…?"

You'll admit it in your heart, at least. That you like them both. The subtlety and the passion.

Valko laughs then, and he leads you through the rest of the hike in your head. He tells you how to kick up the dust of trail under your shoes, makes you stop and smell the earth and the leaves and the two-day-old rain. He catches you with his words when you stumble in your thoughts, and he offers them to you like firm but careful hands.

"I haven't even gotten to the best part," he says.

You fight to keep your eyes shut. "What's the best part?"

He takes a deep breath, like he's thinking about it too. "The sunset," he replies. "You worked through all of that, and you finally make it to the top, and you get a front-row seat to the sun saying goodbye to everything. Kinda like it's trusting you with the whole world before it goes away." He laughs to himself. "Nice, isn't it? Being trusted like that."

For once, you're the one shrugging. "I dunno. I don't know a whole lot about trust, I guess."

Valko laughs again, loud and hearty. As warm as the sunset in your head. "That's not true. Not for a second."

"Of course it is. How are you going to tell me about my life? I'm the one living it, aren't I?"

You open your eyes then, ready to give him more of an earful, but the harsh lighting of the conference room shuts you up too quickly. That, and Valko's frame, just across from you. His knees bump against yours in the cramped space between the table and the wall, and he's watching you so intently through those horn-rimmed glasses. You'd swear, studying him like this, that he's got the leftover sunset in his eyes.

Does he ever look at anyone else like this?

Did he ever look at you like this?

Valko leans forward, slow, smooth. Just enough for you to notice him closing the space between you. "Don't I trust you with my grades?" he asks. His gaze sweeps over you in this little distance, and his hands twitch where they rest on his knees. "Don't you trust me with your time?"

Did his eyes always have those undertones of green in them? And were they always so dusted with red around the edges? And were his brows always so sharp? Or have they changed in this handful of weeks? Or are they just familiar enough to you now? Oh, you fool, you've really done it now. You've made a home for them, haven't you. You've made them comfortable enough to change under your watch.

Haltingly, you sit up straight. It may bring you a little closer to his body, but you're looking everywhere else. At the smears of his red-and-blue work on the dry-erase board. At his notes half-abandoned beside his backpack. At the clock overhead as it beeps and strikes eight.

Oh.

Eight o'clock.

"I—" You flounder in a hasty attempt to get to your feet, heart pounding hard between your ears and drowning out the silent. "It's time."

If you squint, you think you can catch Valko's face falling as his eyes flick toward the clock. "Right. Time."

You start to gather up your belongings, accounting for everything twice over before you zip up your bag, and all the while you push the dust and the leaves and the sunset to the edges of your mind. They were nice while they lasted.

This was nice while it lasted.

Valko snaps you from your thoughts. "You live on campus, right?" he says. "I'll walk you back."

"It's fine," you try to tell him. "I'll be fine. I walk in the dark all the time."

He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the doorframe. "Wasn't asking, Princess."

He accompanies you in the quiet of the late fall night. He even tails you up the stairs, even walks you all the way to your door. Something about how he might as well spoil you if he's going to keep calling you that little nickname. He bids you good night with a salute and an up-and-down look, says that he'll see you in class, and he doesn't leave you be until you've closed the door behind you.

It's as his footsteps are receding that you sink back into that imagination. You think of chocolate milk and sunsets and the burning in his hands. And the ache they leave behind. All the way up your thighs.

———

You start to make time for hiking.

Well, it isn't always hiking, exactly. It just isn't always physics, either. Sometimes it's the flock of geese you saw waddling down the road on the way to class. Sometimes it's the puddles you have to avoid on a rainy day so that you don't get splashed on the way to studying. Once, it's a mild complaint about how your favorite chocolate bar was out of stock at the on-campus convenience store, and you guess it wouldn't be so bad if you weren't craving it so much.

(It dies down when he pulls one out of his backpack, proudly offering it to you between his fingers, and says, "You mean this one?")

On occasion, he asks about the perfume. It's strange, almost like he keeps an eye out for it. Or a nostril, you guess. You forget to put it on one Thursday, and the drop in his energy is so noticeable it's almost concerning. "Didn't you know?" he says. Like he's the smartest damn person in the room. "If you don't keep the same habits when you're studying, you'll remember less stuff when you're taking the test."

You give him a look from your spot beside him on the floor. "You're just making an excuse so that I wear it more."

He tilts his head in earnest. "No, I actually learned that. Take a Psychology course sometime. You might actually learn something."

"Who's tutoring who again?"

Valko grins, making sure you see every point of his teeth. "Uh, whom?"

He notices, the next Thursday. He notices that you're wearing it.

He asks you about your family once. Right after telling you about his. His grandma and his auntie and his cousin. You didn't know there was room for something so personal among all the pages and highlighted words. You've humored him before, you reason, so you might as well do it again. Even though you don't tell him much beyond some vague post-semester plans, the mention of a grandmother and a brother makes him perk up.

"I bet our grandmas would be friends," he declares. Like he's discovering something Isaac Newton never could. He sounds like a kindergartener, saying something like that. "Bet I'd be friends with your brother, too. You said he's trying to get into flight school?"

"Yeah. But I don't know about that. He's sociable, but he's awfully protective of me."

"What?" Valko shifts his weight onto his hand, leaning in impossibly close. Like this, your noses just barely brush. "Am I dangerous or something?"

He's messing with you. He's absolutely messing with you. You know it from his laugh when you shove him. You can only hope, as he returns to his work and his hand flexes in its reach for a pen, that the perfume gave you some kind of upper hand.

How often have you been wearing it, anyway? You haven't really stopped to think about it. You figured it made more sense to make it last as long as possible, really get your money's worth. Well. His money's worth. So you've only been wearing it a few times a week. Only on the days you want to feel a little nicer. Only…

Only on Thursdays and lecture days.

On a whim, while he's walking you back to your room, you calculate how long the bottle ought to last you. At 90 millimeters, and three or four sprays a day, it comes out to fourteen months or so. Comes out that he'll follow you all the way to the summer or the next school year if you let him.

When the walk signal flashes, and Valko nudges you forward with a hand at the small of your back, you wonder if you might be able to stretch it.

During the last lecture, while the professor is going on about the logistics and the key points for the final exam, Valko types you a message from his laptop.

we should go hiking sometime next semester

there's an easy trail near campus

And then:

do you believe in soulmates

It's out of the blue, definitely too metaphysical for a middling course like this. Certainly not like anything you've ever talked about before. The best you can manage, in between paying attention and bulking up your study guide, are a few question marks.

His fingers are flying in seconds. To anyone else, it might look like the panic of reality sinking in, or the sudden switch of someone locking in for such a significant portion of their grade. Honestly, it's what he should be doing. Instead, it's another indulgence of curiosity.

i mean cause we believe in all these atoms and stuff

You roll your eyes. Old habits die hard.

We don't believe in atoms. They exist whether we like it or not.

so is it just like that then

whether you like it or not are you just

somebody's person

somebody you never met yet

somebody you just met

You fidget in your seat and spare him a glance. It's in the middle of your sentence that you realize he's wearing his glasses today.

I don't think I'm somebody's person.

I'm just somebody trying to pass physics.

Out of the corner of your eye, Valko's face falls.

In spite of everything, or perhaps because of everything, he insists on sitting next to you for the final exam once you receive all the details. He's still touting the whole psychology thing, saying that if he's going to pass a test with the most impact on his grade, then the conditions have to work as much in his favor as possible. You don't really believe him—it feels like it's on par with all those cards Tara draws and fortunes she reads—but hey. You've humored him for this long. You might as well give him one more shot.

The exam is on a Friday morning, and Thursday of reading week finds you in that same quiet conference room. Clock ticking, pencil tapping, the overwhelming smell of dry-erase markers. Across the table, Valko is fighting for his life to pay attention; he's the one with the wrinkles this time, and his knuckles are paling with the grip he's got on his pencil. He probably wants to study on the floor again, but you pointed out all his psychology talk at the beginning of the study session, and Valko is more man of his word than menace.

He works through the study guide you've put together, even asks about a few clarifying points that slipped your mind, and he completes a handful of practice problems with fidelity. When he's finished them all, he turns his notebook toward you to check his work. His eyes are drilling into you the whole time; you can feel them on you, following the swipe of your pen as you pass over each problem.

"Oh…" You quirk your lips, pausing on the last question. "This one. I think it's wrong."

You've never been nervous to correct him. Why this time? Why tonight?

Valko's brow furrows. "Really? Lemme see."

He makes a grab for his notebook just as you're pushing it toward him, and you find yourself apologizing, shrinking with another touch of humility. Receding into yourself. After a pause, you clear your throat, rounding the conference room table, leaning over him while you pore over his notes. You're just helping him. You're just correcting him.

"Try it again," you mumble, tapping his formula sheet with the tip of your finger. "With this one."

His gaze rests a bit too long on your hand. Your wrist, maybe. "Yeah?"

Your stomach drops. Just in time with him taking a deep breath to refocus. Just in time with him clenching his fist around his pencil.

"You're wearing it again," he says in the middle of redoing his work.

You shrug. "Helping you study."

"That's why?"

"That's why."

"That's the only reason why?"

You don't answer in either direction before he circles the correct response in his notes.

The last time Valko walks you to the dorm, he's got a little less shame in nudging you around. He keeps his hand on your back when he guides you across the street, and he walks beside you instead of behind you, and he makes sure you're the one bathed in streetlight instead of him. There's wolves around, he says. He laughs when he says you could be one of them, could join them, but he's never doubted your claws. Not when he's been on the business end of them.

If you were stupid, you might think he likes being on the business end of them. If you were stupid.

"Don't forget," you tell him when he drops you off at your door. "Tomorrow morning. 8:00."

Valko nods in understanding, but his eyes keep drifting over you. Like you've been the sunset this whole time. Or the next best thing, since it's gone so early this time of year. "I'll be there."

"They lock the doors after two minutes."

"I know. You think I've never taken a final before?"

"I swear, if I helped you all this time for nothing, I—"

Valko's finger finds your lips before you can finish your threat. Before you can even formulate it. "Good night, Princess. I'll see you in the morning."

Your face grows warm. No, hot. Impossibly hot. You swallow thickly, and his eyes drop to the dip in your throat. Your own goodnight wishes die there before they can ever reach your lips, and the best you can do is turn on your heel in the space between you, stumble into your room, and lock the door.

His laugh, low and warm among the first chills of winter, seep through the crack. "Good night," he says again. Softer. Lingering like his touch on your mouth. Like the ache after a long hike.

———

Valko doesn't show up at 8:00. Or 8:01. Or 8:02.

You should have known better. Of course he would have played you for a fool. But you don't have the time to rage or wallow. You have two and a half hours and a packet of half-impossible questions to answer, and an empty suitcase to fill before Caleb drives in to pick you up, and only three sprays of perfume to carry you through it all.

The exam is grueling at best. Some of the questions are familiar to you, as though they've been plucked straight from your study guide. Others were clearly crafted to spite you; the professor must have remembered every topic you struggled with and made sure there were two problems related to each of them. Honestly, they give you more of a headache than Valko used to.

Oh.

Used to.

You scratch through the questions, one by one, keeping an eye on the clock all the while. At once the time drags on and escapes you, but you've steeled yourself for this. All those times in the conference room felt the exact same way. You take deep breaths in between, stretching out your hands when they start to ache, and in the few seconds that you close your eyes in concentration, you see the hiking trail in your mind. Every question becomes a loud of dust, a stray pebble under your shoe. Every calculation is the rustle of a leaf or the smell of the rain. Every answer you circle is a step closer to the peak, and double-checking becomes a backwards glance, a glimpse at how far you've come.

It gets better this way. It's just not the sort of thing you're supposed to do alone.

There's no sense of relief when you come to the last page. No sense of accomplishment. Not even after you've taken a crack at the extra credit question, something about the second law of thermodynamics. All this work, and even thirty minutes to spare after checking everything over, and no sunset. All you can do, at the end of it all, is trudge to the front of the exam hall and hand in your test. Hope that all those Thursdays were worth it.

And then, after that, try not to bubble over when you nudge the double doors open to find Valko just across the corridor, pushing his glasses up his nose again.

He startles to attention at the sound of the doors and the scuff of your shoes on the tile, and you both stand rigid on either end. Something ugly twists inside your stomach, dark and acidic and venomous—all that work and no fucking sunset—and you turn on your heel just as Valko starts to say he can explain.

You don't care if he's following you through the school building, or through the common area, or even out the main doors. In fact, maybe it's better that way. He ought to be sorry. He ought to grovel and beg for your forgiveness. All that work, all that talk of passing, all that talk of making his grandma proud, and he went and ruined everything for himself. You don't have any more words for him. He'd better not have any for you. He'd better not waste any more of your time. God, you hate him. You hate that he knows the way back to your dorm, and you hate that he can probably smell his perfume on you from paces away, and you hate that you still call it that, his perfume. You hate that you're waiting for his hand on your back when you cross the street with abandon, and you hate that you want him to be sorry, you hate that you want to see him on his knees, pleading, more sheep than wolf for once. And most of all, you hate that he is sorry. That you saw it, in the flashes of his face.

Valko doesn't catch you until you're steps away from your room; it's a feeble grasp, him halfway up the stairs and you out of breath at the top, but the moment he touches you, he refuses to let go. His fingers curl firmly around your wrist, and you wish you wouldn't think of that day on the picnic blanket, the ballpoint pen scrawling across your palm.

"Wait," he says, as certain as his hold on you. "Wait."

"I'm not arguing with you out here," you snap at him, trying to wrench yourself from him, digging in your pocket for your keycard. You're a fool to think you can do both at the same time. "People are studying. In fact, I'm not arguing with you at all. If you want to sit there and tell me all about how sorry you are while I pack, that's fine. But I won't forgive you, Valko. I'm not giving you any more of my time, Valko. I don't work with people who play around with me and promise me they'll get better just to sabotage themselves in the end, Valko."

His name has never tasted like poison before. Statistically, there's a first time for everything.

Valko looks stung when you meet his gaze. Like you've really rubbed his nose in it. He hasn't let go of your wrist. He carries himself like it's the one thing he can't afford. More expensive than 90 milliliters of perfume. More than knowledge.

"I don't wanna argue," he mumbles. "Just let me in."

You grit your teeth. "I already did that."

He looks past you, toward your door. "Please just let me in."

Your nails dig deep into the meat of your hand, and you tug it toward you the moment he loosens his grip. "No excuses," you mutter, the closest you'll get to acquiescing. "Ten minutes. No more."

Valko's shoulder slump with relief. He trades his usual exceitement for an alarmingly quiet gratitude, and he follows you to your door. Doesn't even come in until you tell him to. Sits at your desk when you point to it.

You turn your back to him, grabbing your smaller suitcase from the closet and popping it open on your bed. "Talk."

You half-expect him to open and close his mouth like a fish, scrambling for all the right words to say before coming up with none of them. But to your surprise, he's good at acting on command. "I don't usually check my student email," he says. "But I did this morning, on the way to class. Just in case, you know? And I had a message from the teaching assistant. Sent it a few days ago, I guess. It said…" He pauses long enough for you to shoot him a sharp look, and he sits up straight. "It said I didn't need to take the exam."

"Because?"

"Because…" He sighs. "Because my grade was high enough to exempt me from it. It said so. In the syllabus."

Your chest goes tight. "You're telling me you weren't in the exam hall because you had a nearly perfect score in the class."

Valko's teeth sink into his lip. "Yep."

"The whole time?"

"Whole time." He taps his fingers on your desk, half-remorseful. "Science is… kind of my thing."

You fling a pair of jeans into your suitcase, undoing all the hard work of folding. It doesn't satisfy you. But it helps. "Then what the hell did you want my help for, if I was doing worse than you?"

Valko fixes you with a quiet sort of intensity, the sort you've only ever seen directed toward notes and books and messy whiteboards. His face doesn't falter. Not once. "Wasn't your help I wanted."

You freeze. You don't think you've ever forgotten how to breathe before.

He checks his watch, jerks a thumb behind him. "So d'you want me out of here now, or do I get to stay the extra eight minutes, or what?"

This time, the clothes fall from your hands before you can throw them in. Before you can even fold them up. "You can stay," you say. Defeated. Humble. Finally. "You can stay longer than eight minutes."

Valko sighs in relief, makes an attempt at humor. "Good. Cause I forgot my key card, and my roommate's got finals all day."

(Oh, for fuck's sake.)

For a while, all he does is watch you pack. He doesn't ask questions about your clothes. He doesn't tease you about the stuffed snowman and seal on your bed, or the origami cranes littered across your desk. He just takes in your space. Maybe he's grateful that he gets to be a part of him. That he's getting a side of you that isn't confined to white walls and glass doors and the chemical stench of markers.

He ought to be grateful, honestly.

"You should tell your brother I say hi," he says, all of a sudden.

"I'm not gonna tell my brother some guy I used to tutor—apparently for nothing—says hi."

"Would you tell him a guy you hung out with every week says hi?" he asks. "Would you tell him a guy you like says hi?"

You're in the middle of trying to close your suitcase when he says it, and your hand slips. "A guy I what?"

Valko rises to his feet then, without your telling him to. His steps toward you are few but deliberate, and you swear you can feel every inch of his frame as he leans over you, caging you in, holding your suitcase shut with one broad hand. Your breath hitches, and you're almost certain he hears it, and there he goes again, flexing his hand when he inhales, twitching just so with every jerk of the zipper as you grunt and work the suitcase shut.

He doesn't move. His nose bumps against the curve of your ear and you swear you can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Would you?" he asks. "Don't you?"

You swallow hard, nudging the suitcase toward the foot of your bed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, you do." He breathes you in again, a faint shudder slipping through his teeth. "We both know how smart you are."

His fingers brush the small of your back, an invitation, a prompt, and you turn in the cage of his arms, only half-defiant now. The gold in his eyes has gone molten, and he lingers far too long on the uncertain line of your mouth.

"You're wearing it again," he murmurs. "Saw the bottle on your desk." He touches the inside of your wrist, traces an aimless pattern, chews his lip when your pulse jumps under his fingertips. "It always smells the strongest here, and…" He leans in, a little at a time, until his nose grazes the curve of your neck, until his lips caress your skin when he speaks again. "Here."

You grasp at the edge of your bed, the covers crinkling in your fists. Your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open as you gather your words. "You're supposed to." You don't know why you're whispering. "That's where the pulse points are."

"What about here?" His palm skims up your forearm, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow. "Or here?" He sighs, his breath fanning out over the spot just behind your ear. "Or…"

He's going to pull away. Just before you can see the sunset. You know it.

You take one more step anyway. "Or…?"

Valko doesn't pull away. He kisses you right there, in your dorm room, bending you back against the bed. He wastes no time with you; he's given you enough of it already. He groans in delight when you give in and kiss him back, and he guides your arms to sling around his neck, and when he presses your hips back against the edge of the mattress, he takes advantage of your open mouth and slips his tongue inside. Not even noon, and he tastes like the chocolate milk he used to bring you.

You remember it now. The answer to the extra credit. It's chaos. You know it in the sinking of his hands in your flesh. In how his touch wanders up your sweater. In how he welcomes the curl of your fingers in the belt loops of his jeans, and the brush of your thumbs over his abdomen.

"There's one more," he says under layers of breath. He tugs the collar of your sweater to the side, nipping at your shoulder, gasping softly over your neck before he seals his mouth over the skin. "One more place."

You shift against the solidity of his body, pulling him forward by the hem of his sweater. "Where?"

His eyes sweep over you, pure hunger within them, and he bends to your height. His lips find the base of your throat, and his hands slot themselves just behind your knees as he hoists your weight onto his.

"Here," he says, giving your thighs a gentle squeeze as he sets you on your desk.

He spreads them open, stands between them, nearly bowls you over in kissing you again. Your fingers card through his cropped hair, and he pulls you in closer by the small of your back. And then he's sinking, his touch sliding with him—over your chest, along your waist, the back of your knees, again. Up and up and up your thighs as he drags you to the edge of the desk, his words dangerously close to the hem of your skirt.

"Still want me on all fours, Princess?"

When you peek at him, he's grinning up at you, the wolf he's always been. He's practically itching to nuzzle your palm with his head, and you've never seen him more pliant than the moment you rest your hand in his hair. The moment you push on his scalp.

"Down."

It wasn't the sunset Valko wanted you to see. It was the stars.