DANGEROUS CHEMISTRY
JODY'S POV
Some reactions couldn't be undone once they started.
I stared at the equation on my lab notebook, the molecular structures blurring as Alex leaned closer to point out my mistake. His sleeve brushed against my arm, and I caught the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something warmer, more human. Three weeks of study sessions had improved my chemistry grade from failing to barely passing, but they'd also created a different kind of problem entirely.
"See where you went wrong?" Alex's finger traced the bond angle I'd miscalculated. "The electron pairs repel each other, forcing the molecule into a different shape."
His hand lingered on the page, close enough that if I shifted slightly, our fingers would touch. The after-hours chemistry lab felt smaller with just the two of us, its fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across empty workbenches. Alex had somehow gained access to the building after ten PM, another privilege that came with his last name and whatever connections the Gallagher family maintained with the university.
"I think I've got it now." I rewrote the structure, hyperaware of how he watched my every movement. "The lone pairs create more repulsion than bonding pairs."
"Exactly." His smile made warmth spread through my chest in ways that had nothing to do with academic validation. "You're really getting this, Jody. I knew you would."
The compliment hit exactly where I needed it most. After years of teachers who treated me like a charity case or an inconvenience, Alex's belief in my abilities felt like oxygen after drowning. But something about his phrasing nagged at me—I knew you would—as if my progress was predictable rather than earned.
My phone buzzed with a text from Skylar: Still with Prince Charming? Remember what I said.
What she'd said was that rich boys didn't tutor scholarship girls out of altruism. That Alex Gallagher could have his pick of study partners who came with trust funds and social connections, so why choose me? Skylar had been my roommate for two years, and her suspicion had kept both of us safe more than once. But when Alex looked at me like I was capable of greatness, all her warnings felt like noise.
"Your roommate?" Alex asked, glancing at my phone screen.
"Just checking in." I silenced the device and focused on the next problem set. "She worries when I'm out late."
"Smart girl. Campus can be dangerous after dark." Alex pulled out his own phone to check something, and I caught a glimpse of his screen as he scrolled through what looked like notes. "Though you're safe with me."
The lab fell quiet except for the hum of ventilation systems and the distant sound of security guards making their rounds. Alex worked through a complex synthesis reaction on the whiteboard, his handwriting neat and precise. Every explanation built perfectly on the last, as if he'd done this exact tutorial many times before.
"How many other students do you help?" I asked, capping my pen.
"A few. Scholarship kids, mostly. You all have the same struggles—brilliant minds trapped by circumstances beyond your control." He set down the marker and turned to face me fully. "It's admirable, really. The determination to succeed despite the odds."
There it was again. That clinical way he talked about scholarship students, as if we were a subspecies he'd studied extensively. But his eyes were warm when they met mine, and when he moved closer to check my work, I didn't pull away.
"Your handwriting's improved," he said, his breath warm against my ear as he leaned over my shoulder.
"Good teachers make all the difference."
Our faces were inches apart now, and I could see gold flecks in his pale blue eyes. The rational part of my brain—the part that sounded increasingly like Skylar—screamed warnings about playing with fire. But the larger part, the part that had been starved for genuine connection since arriving at Ashford, wanted to close the distance between us.
Alex's phone lit up on the lab bench, and I glanced over automatically. The screen showed what looked like a detailed document, and I caught fragments before he quickly flipped it face down.
Subject responds well to academic validation...
Financial desperation increases compliance...
Recommend continued positive reinforcement...
My blood turned to ice water. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Alex's expression didn't change, but his hand remained protectively over his phone.
"On your screen. It looked like notes about—"
"Oh, that." His laugh sounded forced. "I keep track of tutoring strategies that work for different students. Helps me tailor my approach." He picked up the phone and slid it into his jacket pocket. "You respond really well to positive feedback, so I make sure to acknowledge your progress."
The explanation made sense. Logical. Reasonable. But something about how quickly he'd produced it made my skin crawl. Like he'd been ready for exactly this question.
"You take psychological notes on all the students you help?"
"Not psychological. Academic." Alex began packing up his materials, his movements suddenly efficient rather than relaxed. "It's just good teaching practice. My education professors would approve."
I wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. Because the alternative—that someone had been studying my vulnerabilities like a lab specimen—was too horrifying to accept. And the way he'd said compliance made me feel like something being trained rather than taught.
"We should head back," Alex said, holding the lab door open for me. "Big exam tomorrow."
The hallway outside was dimly lit, emergency lighting casting long shadows across polished floors. Our footsteps echoed in the empty building, the sound amplifying my growing unease. Alex walked close beside me, occasionally letting his hand brush against mine in a way that might have been accidental.
"Alex." A voice called from behind us.
We turned to see Dr. Powell emerge from what I'd thought was an empty classroom, his silhouette backlit by the glow from his office computer. He looked unsurprised to find us here after hours, as if late-night lab sessions were routine rather than the special privilege I'd assumed them to be.
"Dr. Powell," Alex responded, and I caught something in his tone—familiarity, even deference. "Just finishing up some tutoring."
"How's our star pupil progressing?" Dr. Powell's eyes settled on me with an intensity that made me step closer to Alex without thinking.
"Better than expected," Alex replied, and again that clinical detachment crept into his voice. "Very responsive to the right approach."
They talked about me like I wasn't standing right there, their conversation full of undertones I couldn't decode. Dr. Powell nodded approvingly at whatever Alex's report conveyed, then disappeared back into his office without acknowledging me directly.
Alex seemed to remember I was there and turned back to me with his familiar warm smile. But I'd seen the other expression—the one he'd worn while discussing my progress with Dr. Powell. Calculating. Professional. Like a researcher reporting on a successful experiment.
"Ready for tomorrow's exam?" he asked as we walked toward the building exit. "I have a feeling your whole future depends on it."
Something in his phrasing made the hair on my neck stand up. Not I hope you do well or you're going to ace it. But your whole future depends on it, spoken with the certainty of someone who knew more about my future than I did.
The night air hit my face like a slap, clearing some of the confusion from my head. But as we walked across campus toward the dormitories, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being led somewhere I didn't want to go, one carefully calculated step at a time.