The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Chapter 180: 180 | You’re Mine. Say It.

The jealousy was so obvious it would have been visible from space. Which was both flattering and slightly concerning given that Felicity’s gauge sat at eight percent and Sloane’s sat at eighty-four.

I texted back that I was on my way. The response was a single thumbs up emoji followed by a second message clarifying that the emoji did not indicate satisfaction and that there would be a discussion.

The common room had filled up while I was helping Felicity unpack. At least eight new faces occupied various seating arrangements, parents lingering near the entrance with the reluctant expressions of people who knew they needed to leave but couldn’t quite commit to doing it.

Percy had emerged from his room and claimed his corner of the modular couch. His notebook was open on his lap and his eyes tracked the new arrivals with the intensity of someone building a comprehensive database in real time. He spotted me crossing toward the front door and raised a hand in greeting.

"Lukas. New data. The delivery schedule confirms four more arrivals before noon. I’ve identified a potential bottleneck in the elevator timing if they all arrive within the same thirty-minute window. Recommending staggered common room visits to avoid congestion."

"Good to know, Percy."

"Also." He hesitated, which was unusual for him. "The girl who arrived this morning. The blonde one. She’s. Very loud."

"That’s accurate."

"She seems nice though. In an overwhelming sort of way." He made a note in his notebook, pencil scratching against paper. "I’ve categorized her as ’friendly-aggressive.’ Is that a fair assessment?"

"Extremely fair."

He nodded, apparently satisfied that his classification system remained sound. I left him to his observations and headed out the front door.

The walk to Sloane’s building took seven minutes at a pace that didn’t qualify as running but definitely exceeded casual strolling. The campus was fully awake now, students and parents moving in both directions, the air filled with the particular energy of a community about to begin something together.

Sloane was waiting in the common room of her building when I arrived. Not sitting. Standing near the window with her arms crossed and her pink ponytail catching the morning light. Her blue eyes locked onto me the moment I walked through the door with the intensity of a targeting system acquiring a hostile.

"You."

"Me."

"With the blonde."

"Yes."

"In her room."

"Helping her move furniture."

"For how long?"

"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty."

Her jaw worked. The pink in her cheeks could have been anger or embarrassment or some combination that she would never admit to either way. Her crop top and fitted jeans did nothing to diminish the physical presence that her Aspect amplified, curves and muscle and barely contained energy that could level a building if she stopped holding back.

"She’s pretty."

"She’s my classmate."

"That’s not a denial."

"You want me to lie and say she’s ugly?"

"I want you to say she’s not as pretty as me."

"Sloane."

"What?"

I closed the distance between us. Her arms stayed crossed but her eyes tracked me with something that wasn’t quite hostility anymore. More like uncertainty dressed up as aggression because uncertainty was an emotion she refused to admit she felt.

"She’s not as pretty as you."

"You’re just saying that because I’m standing right here."

"I’m saying it because it’s true." I reached up and tucked a strand of pink hair behind her ear, watching her cheeks flush darker at the contact. "Felicity Hardy is objectively attractive and I would have to be blind not to notice. But she’s not you. She’s not the girl who trained with me for two months. She’s not the girl who knows exactly how I take my coffee. She’s not the girl who threatened to blow up my room if I didn’t visit her yesterday."

"I did not threaten to blow up your room."

"You heavily implied it."

"Implication is not a threat."

"The scorch marks on your door frame suggest otherwise."

She uncrossed her arms. Her hands found my chest, palms flat against the fabric of my hoodie. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just. Present.

"She touched you."

"She hugged me. As a greeting."

"Same thing."

"Not remotely the same thing."

"It felt like the same thing. When I watched your dot moving around her room on the tracking app." Her blue eyes were fierce and vulnerable simultaneously in a way that only Sloane could manage. "I know I’m being stupid. I know you wouldn’t. I know we’re. Whatever we are. But I still felt it. This thing in my chest that wanted to walk over there and establish very clear boundaries about who gets to touch you and how."

"Jealousy."

"Don’t call it that."

"What should I call it then?"

"Protective instincts. Territorial awareness. Reasonable concern about appropriate physical contact between classmates."

"All of those are just jealousy with extra syllables."

She punched my chest. Light enough not to hurt. Hard enough to make her point.

"I hate you."

"No you don’t."

"I hate that you’re right."

"That’s different."

Her hands fisted in my hoodie and pulled me down to her level. The kiss was aggressive and possessive and tasted like the protein shake she’d had for breakfast. Her body pressed against mine with the warm solid weight of someone staking a claim.

When she pulled back her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was slightly uneven in a way that had nothing to do with anger.

"You’re mine."

"I know."

"Say it."

"I’m yours."

"And the blonde?"

"Is my classmate. Who I helped move furniture. Because she asked and I’m apparently incapable of saying no to women who make unreasonable requests."

That earned me a small smile. The first one since I’d walked through the door.

"That’s going to be a problem for you at this school."

"I’m aware."

"Lots of women here. Lots of unreasonable requests incoming."

"I’ll manage."

"Will you?"

I kissed her forehead because it was the only response that wouldn’t lead to a conversation I wasn’t ready to have. She made a small sound of contentment and her body relaxed against mine.

"You smell like vanilla," she said into my chest.

"That would be Felicity."

"I don’t like vanilla."

"I’ll shower."

"You’ll shower in my bathroom. Right now. While I watch to make sure you’re thorough."

"That seems excessive."

"That seems necessary." She pulled back and grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the elevator with the determination of someone who had decided on a course of action and would not be deterred. "Come on. My room has excellent water pressure and I have opinions about your hygiene that I plan to express in detail."