The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

The elevator ride to the third floor felt longer than it should have given the building was only five stories tall. Sloane kept her grip on my wrist the entire time, her fingers warm against my skin and tight enough to leave marks if she wanted to. She didn’t look at me. She stared at the brushed steel doors with the focused intensity of someone who had committed to a plan and refused to acknowledge any potential complications.

Like the fact that we were in the middle of a residential building filled with her classmates on a Friday morning during move-in weekend.

"Sloane."

"Don’t."

"There are people in the hallway."

"I don’t care."

"You will care when someone from Class 1-A sees you dragging me into your room at nine in the morning."

"Then they’ll learn to mind their business."

The elevator doors opened. The hallway was mercifully empty, though I could hear voices coming from one of the rooms further down. Sloane pulled me out of the elevator and toward her door with the kind of single-minded purpose that made arguing pointless.

Her room looked different than it had Tuesday night. The mattress plastic was gone, replaced by dark grey sheets that she’d probably picked because they matched her aesthetic rather than any practical consideration. The garment bags still hung in the closet but everything else had been unpacked and arranged with the same aggressive organization she applied to her training schedule. Even her protein powder containers were lined up by flavor on the small shelf above the mini fridge.

She shut the door behind us and locked it. The click of the deadbolt sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room.

"Shower," she said. Not a question. A command.

"Sloane."

"You smell like her perfume. Vanilla and flowers and whatever expensive nonsense she sprays on herself to smell approachable." She finally turned to face me, her blue eyes burning with something that wasn’t quite anger. "You’re going to wash it off. All of it. Right now."

"She hugged me once."

"Once is enough. Once means her scent is on your clothes and your skin and probably in your hair because she’s tall enough to reach." Sloane’s jaw tightened. "I can smell it from here. It’s sweet. Too sweet. Like she rolled around in a bakery before coming to school."

"That’s a slight exaggeration."

"Is it though?"

She stepped closer. Her hands found the hem of my hoodie and tugged upward without asking permission. I raised my arms because fighting her on this would only make things worse and also because part of me found her possessiveness deeply attractive in ways I wasn’t going to examine too closely.

The hoodie came off. She threw it in the direction of her laundry basket without looking, her eyes fixed on my chest with an expression that combined appreciation and irritation in equal measure.

"Shirt too."

"I can undress myself."

"Not fast enough." Her fingers worked the buttons of my flannel with an efficiency born of practice. We’d done this enough times over the past two months that she knew exactly how my clothes worked, which buttons stuck and which ones slid free easily. The flannel joined the hoodie in the basket. "Better. But I can still smell it."

"That’s probably psychological."

"I don’t care if it’s psychological. I care that it’s happening." She pressed her palm flat against my chest, right over my heart. Her skin was warm and slightly rough from training. "Mine."

"Yours."

"Say it again."

"Yours, Sloane. I’ve been yours since you accidentally blew up the training dummy while trying to prove you didn’t need my help with cool-down stretches."

"That was one time."

"That was three times. I counted."

"The third one doesn’t count. You startled me."

"I said good morning."

"Aggressively."

Her free hand found my belt. The buckle clinked as she worked it loose, her movements sure and confident despite the flush spreading across her cheeks. Sloane Fitzgerald could face down S-rank threats without flinching but undressing her boyfriend in her own room still made her blush like she was doing something forbidden.

It was unreasonably cute.

"You know how this works," I said as she pulled the belt free and dropped it on the floor. "You know what the System requires. You know I have to build connections with other women or the penalties get worse."

"I know."

"Then why are you upset?"

"Because knowing something intellectually and being okay with it emotionally are two completely different things and you’re an asshole for not understanding that." She shoved my jeans down with more force than necessary. "You’ve been here four days. Four days, Lukas. And you’ve already got that white-haired sheep girl following you around with heart eyes and the blonde one pressing her chest against you in hugs and probably three other women I don’t even know about yet."

"Rina doesn’t have heart eyes."

"Her tail literally wags when you talk to her."

"That’s involuntary."

"That’s my point." Sloane’s voice cracked on the last word. Just a little. Just enough to reveal the vulnerability underneath all that aggression. "You’re good at this. Too good. You make people feel seen and appreciated and important without even trying. It’s like breathing for you. And I’m supposed to be okay with watching you breathe all over every attractive woman at this school while I stand in the corner pretending I don’t want to set half of them on fire."

I caught her face in my hands. She tried to pull away but I held firm, tilting her chin up until she had no choice but to look at me.

"You’re jealous."

"Don’t."

"You’re jealous and scared and probably a little angry at yourself for feeling either of those things because Sloane Fitzgerald doesn’t get scared and she definitely doesn’t get jealous over some guy she grew up with."

"You’re not some guy."

"No. I’m not." I pressed my forehead against hers, close enough that I could see the faint freckles across her nose that she pretended didn’t exist. "I’m the guy who knows that you cry at dog rescue videos. I’m the guy who knows you keep a stuffed bear from your dad hidden in the back of your closet even though you tell everyone you threw it away years ago. I’m the guy who knows that you’re terrified of becoming your mother even though you love her more than anyone else in the world."