CHAPTER 168: JUST NUMBERS

"I called you ’that attractive,’ which is technically underselling it," I said, trying to sound casual while my little brother decided to revolt in my pants when she squeezed my legs her bare legs. "Starting with ’you’re so hot you’re making me forget pharmacology’ seemed too aggressive for a first coffee meeting."

’Did I just call this a date? Fuck. I did.’

"So, this is a date?" She leaned back, teasing, but there was curiosity lurking under her grin, teasing my legs under table. "I thought this was just academic tutoring."

"It can be both. Multitasking."

"You’re seventeen."

"Seventeen next month, technically. And you’re twenty-five. Just numbers."

"Eight years isn’t just numbers, Peter." Her tone wasn’t angry. Not really. It was sharp, aware, and yes... intrigued. "What would people say if they knew I was on a date with a student?"

"Probably the same thing those guys over there are thinking—that I either sold my soul or saved your life to get coffee with you."

Her eyes flicked around, catching the way the pre-med guy at the next table had practically drawn a sword in his mind and challenged me to a sword dual. She finally registered the audience.

"They’re not very subtle, are they?" she mused.

"To be fair, you’re not very subtle either. That sweater should come with a warning label."

"Oh my god." She buried her face in her hands, but I could see the grin stretching under her fingers. "Are you seriously hitting on me with pharmacology and fashion critique?"

"Is it working?"

She peeked through her fingers. "Maybe. Probably. Definitely more than it should be."

The words hovered in the air, heavy and dangerous. She lowered her hands, the playful teasing still there—but now something else had slid into the cracks. Something electric. Something that could ignite if either of us blinked wrong.

"This is crazy," she said softly. "I’m literally sitting in a coffee shop, flirting with a teenager who made headlines for violence today."

"When you put it like that, it sounds bad."

"Doesn’t it?" But she leaned forward again, close enough that I could count the individual eyelashes, the faint curl at the tips. "So why does it feel—"

"Right?" I supplied, like it was the only possible answer.

"I was going to say exciting, but right works too." She shook her head, waging some silent argument with herself. "You know what? Fuck it. I spend every day being professional, appropriate, responsible. Maybe I want to do something a little crazy."

"Discussing pharmacology is crazy?"

"Discussing pharmacology with a teenager who looks at me like I’m the most interesting thing in the universe? Yeah. Pretty crazy."

’Am I that obvious?’

"You are the most interesting thing in this coffee shop," I said honestly. "Possibly the entire university district."

"See, that." She pointed at me, still smiling. "That right there. You say things like that so easily. Most guys your age would be stammering and awkward."

"Most guys my age haven’t had to grow up as fast as I have."

Something in my tone must have conveyed more than I intended because her expression softened. "No, I suppose they haven’t. That thing today with Holloway..."

"Was necessary," I finished. "My sister was in danger. I did what I had to do."

"And now you’re here, having coffee with me, like violence isn’t part of your repertoire."

"Violence is always part of everyone’s repertoire," I said quietly. "The only question is what brings it out. Threaten someone I love? Yeah, I become someone else. But this?" I gestured between us. "This is who I actually am. Just a guy who likes smart women and knows too much about drug interactions."

She studied me, slow, deliberate. I could practically see her recalibrating every assumption she’d made about me. "You’re not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Honestly? Some awkward teenager with a crush who memorized a few medical terms to impress me." She smiled ruefully. "Instead, you’re... this. Whatever this is."

"Disappointed?"

"The opposite, actually. Which is the problem."

’There’s a problem?’

She must have seen the question in my eyes because she continued. "Peter, I’m twenty-five. You’re in high school. I work at your school. There are so many reasons why this—whatever this is—is a terrible idea."

"And yet you’re still here."

"And yet I’m still here," she agreed. "Making eyes at a teenager over coffee like I’ve lost my damn mind."

"You’re making eyes at me?"

She laughed, loud, unrestrained. "Are you fishing for compliments now?"

"Always. My ego needs constant feeding."

"Your ego seems plenty healthy from where I’m sitting." Warmth, affection, maybe a touch of mischief in her tone. "God, what am I doing?"

"Having coffee. Discussing medicine. Enjoying yourself for what sounds like the first time in months."

"It is," she admitted. "The first time in months I’ve felt like myself instead of just... roles. Nurse. Student. Professional. Responsible adult."

"So stop being responsible for a few hours. Be Valentina instead."

"Just Valentina?" She tested the idea, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "And who’s Valentina when she’s not being responsible?"

"That’s... what I’m trying to find out."

The look she gave me then was pure fire, age difference be damned. "Careful what you wish for, Peter. You might not be ready for just Valentina."

’Try me. I’ve handled supernatural sex goddesses and system-enhanced seduction. How dangerous could one graduate student be?’

"Only one way to find out," I said, matching her energy.

She held my gaze a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision. "Okay. But we’re going to need more coffee. And possibly somewhere with fewer audience members."

I glanced around. Half the coffee shop had become our unwilling spectators. "Any suggestions?"

"There’s a 24-hour diner a few blocks away. Quieter, better food, and the owner doesn’t care if people camp out in booths for hours." She started gathering her notes. "Plus, they have pie, and sugar helps with studying."

"Pie and pharmacology. You really know how to show a guy a good time."

"Oh honey," she said, standing and giving me a view that made my brain short-circuit entirely, "you have no idea what I consider a good time."

’This woman is going to be the death of me tonight. And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.’

As we prepared to leave, I caught her hand briefly. "Hey. Thank you. For taking a chance on this. On me."

She squeezed my fingers, electricity shooting up my arm like a minor seizure. "Thank you for being worth the risk."

We walked out together, ignoring stares and whispers, stepping into an evening that smelled like caffeine and bad decisions. Valentina slipped her arm through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"So," she said casually, "tell me more about this sister you went to war for today."

And just like that, we fell into easy conversation, walking through the university district like any other couple. Except we weren’t. We were a powder keg of attraction, intellect, and impossibility, heading to a diner where we’d pretend to study while really studying each other.

’First real date. And it’s perfect in all its complicated, inappropriate, absolutely insane glory.’

But fun was in what happened next.