Chapter 7
JULIAN POLE
Monday mornings never failed to drag, but this one felt heavier. On the bus ride to campus, everyone had their heads buried in their phones, talking about the same thing: a shooting downtown. Supposedly two "big families" had gone at each other. Guns. Sirens. People running for cover.
By the time I made it to class, it was all anyone could talk about.
"Probably the Serranos."
"No, no—it had to be Marino guys. That's their area."
"Bet the cops won't do anything, as usual."
I just sat there listening, not following. Families? Serranos? Marinos? To me, they were just names—like something out of the local news crawl at the bottom of the TV screen. Stuff that didn't matter in my world.
Then Jace walked in.
The shift in the room was instant. Everyone shut up. No whispering, no side-eyes. Just silence. He didn't have to say a word—he never did. His presence was enough.
I froze for a second, my brain annoyingly aware of how he carried himself, how people seemed to… move out of his way without him even asking like the air bent for him.
And me? I kept my head down, scribbling nonsense into my notebook, trying not to get caught staring.
Still, I couldn't ignore the way everyone else looked at him. Not with fear exactly, but… with caution. Like he was something untouchable.
And somehow, I was supposed to sit with him later and let him tutor me.
Yeah. Normal Monday.
The rest of class crawled, and when it finally ended, I stuffed my notebook into my bag and bolted for the door.
Didn't matter. He was already waiting by the exit.
"Let's go," Jace said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. No hi, no are you ready? Just let's go.
I followed him out, my backpack feeling ten times heavier than usual.
In the parking lot, I spotted his car right away. Not because I knew anything about cars—I didn't—but because it stood out. Sleek. Black. The kind of car that looked like it belonged in a movie chase scene.
He opened the passenger door without looking at me. "Get in."
I hesitated, glancing around like someone would see me and ask what I was doing. No one did.
Inside, the leather seats were cool against my palms. The whole thing smelled faintly like coffee and something sharper I couldn't name. Expensive, maybe. Jace slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and for a while, the only sound was the low hum of it.
I fiddled with my bag strap. "So… do you, like, always drive students home?"
His eyes flicked toward me, then back to the road. "You're not most students."
Which wasn't an answer. Or maybe it was, and I just didn't get it.
The silence stretched until I blurted, "You didn't have to. I could've just met you at the library or something."
"I don't like libraries," he said simply.
And that was it. End of discussion.
We drove the rest of the way without words, but I kept sneaking glances at him—his grip on the wheel, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he looked like he was thinking about five different things at once.
By the time we pulled up to his building, my stomach was doing this weird twist.
This was happening. I was about to sit down with my professor and let him teach me.
His apartment was neat, but not in the show-off kind of way. Everything had its place. The couch, the armchair I remembered from that night, the faint smell of coffee that seemed attached to him more than the place.
But what caught me off guard was the table.
It hadn't been there before—I was sure of it. Small, sturdy, and smack in the middle of the living room. And on top: stacks of books, a couple of yellow legal pads, two pens lined up side by side like soldiers waiting for orders.
My chest did this stupid tight thing. He had set it up for this. For me.
"Are you going to sit," he said, "or stand there memorizing the furniture?"
I dropped into the chair fast enough to make it scrape against the floor. Smooth.
Jace took the seat across from me, flipping open a book with a motion too practiced to be casual. "Alright. Criminal law. Tell me what you know."
I blinked. He's just going for it. He didn't even offer me anything.
"Uh… crime is bad?"
The corner of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile but was physically restraining himself. "Cute."
Heat climbed my neck.
"Alright, let's start simple. Define premeditation."
I gripped the pen like it might save my life. "Uh… thinking about it ahead of time?"
One eyebrow lifted. "Thinking, or planning?"
I hesitated. "Planning?"
"Better. Planning." He tapped his pen against the margin of his notes. "Now—the difference between premeditated and second-degree?"
"That's…" I stalled. "One's worse?"
His mouth twitched, and for half a second I saw it—the smile trying to fight its way through. "Legally, yes. But explain."
I scrambled, my brain blank. "Premeditated means you, uh, like, set a date with murder. Second-degree is more like… a bad impulse buy?"
That earned me the smallest laugh, low and quick. "Impulse buy," he repeated, shaking his head. "Not terrible. But the law calls it intent without prior planning. You didn't schedule the crime. You just… did it."
"So, like road rage?" I said, trying to catch up.
"Exactly." His gaze lingered, sharp but not unkind. "See? You're not hopeless."
The praise landed heavier than it should've. I ducked my head, pretending to read the open page in front of me.
When I looked up.
His eyes were locked on mine, steady and sharp. "You're not stupid. Stop acting like it."
The words hit harder than they should've. I ducked my head, tracing a doodle into the margin of the legal pad. "Not acting. Just… slow."
"Not slow." He tilted his head, studying me. "Unfocused."
Heat crept up my neck. I mumbled, "That's basically the same thing."
"No," he said simply. "Unfocused can be fixed."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I glanced at the table instead. Clean, sturdy, completely out of place in the middle of his living room. My mind wouldn't let it go. He didn't buy this for himself. He bought it for me.
The thought made my throat go dry.
"Okay," he said, breaking the silence. "Hypothetical. You walk into a store, angry. You see someone you hate. You pull a knife. What's the charge?"
"Second-degree murder?"
"Better." He nodded once, approving.
My chest did that flip thing again.
I felt stupidly proud.
"Alright. Next, you bring the knife with you. You wait for them. You follow them inside." His voice didn't change, but the words carried weight. "Now what?"
I hesitated. "Premeditated?"
He nodded again. "Exactly. You planned. You acted."
I exhaled, more relieved than I should've been. "So basically, don't carry knives to stores."
The corner of his mouth tugged upward. "You're catching on."
I leaned back, grinning despite myself. "See? I'm not hopeless."
"Not yet," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "Yet?"
"Give it time." He smirked.
For a second, the table didn't exist, the books didn't exist. It was just me and him, words thrown back and forth like we'd been doing this for longer than ten minutes.
And I hated how much I didn't want it to end.
By the time my notes started looking more like doodles than actual words, Jace snapped the book shut.
"That's enough. You're fried."
"I could've gone another round," I argued, even though my brain was basically oatmeal.
"You'd have gotten every answer wrong." He leaned back in his chair, stretching, the veins in his forearm standing out as his sleeve pulled tight. "Not worth wasting either of our time."
I slumped against the chair, twirling the pen. "You ever get tired of being right about everything?"
"Only when I'm surrounded by people who make it too easy."
My mouth dropped. "Wow. Humble."
The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face. Then it was gone, replaced by something harder—quieter. He was looking past me now, at nothing, the way someone looks when a sound they're expecting finally arrives.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Fine." The answer was automatic, too sharp.
The silence stretched. I fiddled with the pen, unsure if I'd broken some invisible rule. Then I said it without thinking—
"That gunshot. At the party."
His eyes snapped back to mine.
My pulse jumped, but I didn't back down. "You didn't even flinch. Everyone else was screaming, running. You just… moved. Like you'd done it before."
For the first time since I'd known him, Jace looked unsettled. Not rattled. Not panicked. Just… calculating.
"Gunfire doesn't bother me," he said finally. His voice was low, steady. "It shouldn't bother you, either. You're the son of a cop."
"My dad doesn't exactly drag me to shooting ranges." I tried to make it a joke, but it came out flat.
Jace's gaze pinned me where I sat. "Then stay out of places where it's a risk."
I swallowed. "Is that what you do? Stay out of places?"
The corner of his jaw ticked. "No. I walk into them anyway."
There was no humor there. No bragging. Just a truth I wasn't sure I wanted to know more about.
I wanted to ask—how many times? What did you see? What did you do?—but my throat closed around the questions.
Instead, I said the stupidest thing possible:
"You don't sleep much, do you?"
He blinked, caught off guard, and for a second the mask slipped.
"Not when it's noisy," he admitted.
The weight of that sat between us. I nodded like I understood, even though I didn't. Not really.
Jace pushed back from the table, gathering the books into a neat stack. "Session's over." He paused
"Do you need anything"
"Water," I said.
He crossed the room, going to what I suppose to be the kitchen.
That's when I noticed it.
His phone. Sitting there on the table, screen down, a faint buzz rattling the wood beneath it.
I froze. I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't.
But another buzz lit the screen, and before I could stop myself, I leaned forward.
The message preview glowed up at me.
Mateo: I swear I told Marco to stay clear of the Serrano boys. They messed with one of the warehouses again.
My stomach dropped. Serrano. The name alone felt like a loaded gun on the table.
I think I heard that name somewhere, but I can't remember.
Oh, oh, that's…wait….
I sat back, heart racing, staring at the phone like it might explode.
"Here"
I shot up too quickly, knocking over the glass of water my professor had set beside me. It hit the floor and shattered into glittering pieces.
I bent down instinctively to clean it up, but his hand caught mine—firm, stopping me mid-movement. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment I couldn't decipher the look there. Panic? Concern? Something deeper I couldn't name.
"Don't," he said quietly. "I'll take care of it." He paused, scanning me as though I might break. "Are you okay?"
"You scared me," I whispered.
"I'm sorry," he answered, his expression softening. He looked almost childlike—like someone waiting for forgiveness they weren't sure they deserved. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head. "No."
Still, he guided me back into the chair, hovering, checking me over again and again as though I might suddenly reveal a hidden wound. Then he crouched before me, level with my knees, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek in the process. My skin flared with heat.
Was he always this tender? Or was this… just for me?
My face burned, my pulse racing so wildly I thought it might break free of my chest.
"I'm sorry for scaring you," he murmured, his voice barely holding together. "I didn't mean to. I just… I didn't…" He faltered—my professor, usually so steady, suddenly adrift, searching for words and failing.
"I'm fine," I told him, softer this time, trying to anchor us both.
Relief washed over his face, loosening the tension in his shoulders. For a fleeting second, he looked impossibly young—unguarded, almost fragile.
And I thought: what am I supposed to do with him?