Chapter 9
The cost-benefit analysis of Gabriel’s proposition takes approximately three seconds.
Pro: My father never finds out I sexually assaulted my bodyguard in a drunken rage.
Con: I have to move while feeling like roadkill.
“Fine,” I croak, peeling myself off the mattress with all the grace of wet cement. “But if I die on this run, I’m haunting your ass for eternity. And I’m talking full poltergeist—throwing shit, writing creepy messages on mirrors, the works.”
“Noted. Though I suspect your ghost would be too lazy for proper haunting.” Gabriel’s already tossing me running clothes, which I catch with the reflexes of a sedated sloth. “Water first. Then we suffer.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m discovering new levels of hell.
Turns out running with a hangover isn’t just bad—it’s a form of torture Geneva forgot to ban. Every step sends shockwaves through my skull, my stomach’s staging a full rebellion, and I’m sweating what I’m pretty sure is pure vodka.
“This is inhumane,” I gasp, bent double at a crosswalk. “I’m filing a complaint with… someone. The running police. The hangover protection agency. Whoever handles cases of cruel and unusual jogging.”
Gabriel hands me water without comment, but there’s something almost soft in his expression.
“Halfway done. You’re doing better than expected, considering you tried to pickle yourself from the inside last night.”
“Fuck your reasonable observations.”
But I take the water, because dying of dehydration would really put a damper on my plans to make his life miserable.
“And fuck you for being right about literally everything, it’s exhausting.”
We stumble back to the dorm eventually, and I collapse on my bed like a Victorian lady with the vapors. Gabriel, because he’s apparently part sadist, produces soup from somewhere and insists I eat it.
“I’m not a toddler,” I protest weakly, but when he holds out the spoon, I open my mouth anyway.
Pride is for people who don’t feel like death’s unsuccessful science experiment.
“This is humiliating. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Glare at me passive-aggressively? Order pizza out of spite?” He’s fighting a smile, the bastard. “Your threats need work when you can barely lift your head.”
The soup is good—some kind of chicken thing that actually settles my stomach instead of starting World War Three in my intestines.
Gabriel feeds me with practiced efficiency, like he’s dealt with hungover disasters before. Probably has, given his apparent job description of ‘professional Leo wrangler.’
“Why are you doing this?” The question slips out between spoonfuls, softer than intended. “The whole caretaking thing. Pretty sure that’s above your pay grade.”
He pauses, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Would you prefer I let you suffer alone? Because that can be arranged. I have actual work to do that doesn’t involve spoon-feeding overgrown children.”
“See, there’s the Gabriel I know and loathe.” But there’s no heat in it. Hard to maintain proper hatred when someone’s literally nursing you back to health. “Don’t go getting all tender on me. It’s confusing.”
The day crawls by in a haze of soup, water, and Gabriel’s quiet presence.
He works on his laptop while I drift in and out of consciousness, occasionally forcing more fluids on me when I show signs of life.
It’s weirdly domestic, uncomfortably intimate for two people supposedly at war.
By evening, I’m almost human again. Gabriel packs up his stuff with the efficiency of someone desperate to escape, carefully sliding “Diplomatic Protection: Ethics and Protocols in High-Risk Environments” into his bag like it’s not the world’s most obvious career handbook.
“Grad school thing,” he explains, not meeting my eyes. “Seminar on diplomatic security tonight.”
“Right, because you need more training on how to babysit rebellious royalty,” I snort. “Bet that book has a whole chapter on dealing with ‘difficult assets’ like me. What’s the ethical protocol for spying on someone for months before they find out you’re their shadow?”
He leaves with one last warning look, and suddenly my room feels too quiet. Too empty.
Which is stupid because I wanted to be alone, needed space to think without his hovering presence. But apparently my brain didn’t get the memo about hating him, because I spent the next hour scrolling through my phone and definitely not wondering what he’s doing.
Jake saves me from my spiral by bursting through the door like the Kool-Aid Man with better fashion sense.
“Get up, you tragic disaster,” he announces, grinning like he’s discovered the secret to cold fusion. “We’ve got a cultural evening to attend, and you’re my plus-one.”
I don’t even lift my head from the pillow.
“Unless that cultural evening involves alcohol or a scandal, count me out. I’ve hit my quota for terrible decisions this week.”
“Scandal? Please.” Jake grabs my wrist, hauling me upright with surprising strength for someone who subsists on energy drinks and spite.
“You should see my code repository—that thing’s such a mess it’d make the White House cry. But seriously, you need to socialize with people who aren’t your permanently scowling… what is he, a school friend? Family body double? Hired muscle?”
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. “Gabriel? Oh yeah, he’s… family punishment. Like community service, but more annoying.”
“Weird family dynamics, but okay.” Jake’s already dragging me toward the door. “Come on, I’m introducing you to normal people. Well, normal for comp sci majors, which means they’re all beautiful disasters in their own special ways.”
I follow Jake across the quad, my royal paranoia wondering if Gabriel’s watching from some shadowy corner with binoculars and a disapproving scowl.
The fresh air feels good though—turns out royal sulking isn’t great for oxygen intake, and maybe hanging with people whose biggest crisis is a coding error instead of international diplomacy is exactly what I need.
The next dorm block is like entering a different universe.
Where our hallway smells like Axe and poor decisions, this one reeks of pizza, Red Bull, and the specific desperation of people trying to debug code at 2 AM.
Jake leads me to a room that looks like Best Buy exploded—cables everywhere, multiple monitors glowing, enough computing power to probably hack a small government.
“Fresh meat!” Jake announces, pushing me forward. “Everyone, this is Leo. Leo, these are the nerds who keep me sane.”
Several pairs of eyes swivel toward me, sizing up my designer jeans and the kind of haircut that screams ‘I have a trust fund.’
One guy with thick glasses whistles low.
“This one’s new,” Jake explains, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t be scared—he’s one of the pretty ones, not technical. But we don’t hold that against him.”
I shrug, dropping into an empty chair between laptops. “Give me a chance. I might at least know what a password is. Maybe even how to turn a computer on without calling tech support.”
“If you know a password needs to be longer than two characters, you’re already royalty here,” jokes a guy with paint-stained fingers and the kind of smile that belongs in toothpaste commercials.
I nearly choke on my laugh—if only they knew—and Jake grins wider.
“You should meet his Gabriel sometime. That guy shows up to hangouts with a face so serious I swear he’s an undercover CIA. Never drinks, never relaxes, just lurks like he’s casing the joint.”
“Worse,” I smirk, settling into the familiar rhythm of talking shit about Gabriel. “He’s got the personality of a broken firewall. All restrictions, no fun.”
Paint-stained Fingers laughs, and his eyes linger on me just long enough to make his interest clear. No pretense, no games, just honest attraction.
It’s refreshing after weeks of Gabriel’s emotional whiplash.
“I’m Elijah,” he offers, extending a hand decorated with coding-themed rings. “Senior, CS major, professional procrastinator, and the only person here who reads actual books instead of just documentation.”
His handshake is warm, firm, and holds a beat too long to be purely friendly.
Up close, I can see he’s got that specific brand of nerd-hot going on—soft sweaters, gentle energy, probably knows how to build a computer from scratch but also quotes poetry.
His dark curls fall just right over wire-rimmed glasses, and when he pushes them up with long, elegant fingers, I catch eyes that are somehow both intelligent and mischievous.
My brain immediately files him under “intellectual but definitely fucks,” and I’m already wondering what those careful hands could do with the right motivation. A sweet, stay-at-home type. The kind I hadn’t tasted yet. Nice.
