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Chapter three

Rules of Engagement

B y our third tutoring session, my rules had evolved from a simple laminated sheet into what Dex called "The Manifesto of Mutual Torture." It was now a full binder, complete with color-coded tabs, subsections, and an index. I'd spent six hours organizing it, which was a normal amount of time to think about ways to not think about Jack Morrison.

The binder wasn't just about maintaining professional distance anymore. It was about protecting myself from precisely the kind of guy who'd think nothing of breaking hearts and library regulations with equal abandon. This morning's campus gossip featured yet another story about his latest conquest – apparently, he'd been seen leaving the swim team captain's party with two girls on consecutive nights.

"Rule 147b," I read aloud as Jack slouched into Study Room 204 exactly seventeen minutes late, as usual. His hair was artfully messed up in that way that probably took an hour to perfect, and there was a mark on his neck that looked suspiciously like a hickey. "All participants must maintain proper posture during sessions. No slouching, lounging, or deliberately distracting poses."

He immediately slid lower in his chair, making it look like a modeling advertisement. "Define 'deliberately distracting.'"

"Rule 228," I continued, ignoring both him and the way my stomach clenched at the sight of that mark on his neck. "No removal of outerwear during sessions unless room temperature exceeds 78 degrees Fahrenheit."

"It's at least 80 in here," he said, shrugging off his leather jacket to reveal a white t-shirt that had to be deliberately chosen for maximum academic disruption. That's when I saw them – intricate tattoos trailing down both arms, black ink against tanned skin.

I didn't stare. And I also didn't wonder what the tattoos meant, how far they extended under his shirt, or why someone who'd just left a party at 4 AM (according to Twitter) still managed to look frustratingly perfect at 2 PM.

"Like what you see?" He caught me looking because, of course, he did. "Want me to explain what they mean?"

"Rule 335," I said quickly, shuffling papers. "No personal questions or discussions unrelated to academic subjects." Like why you smell like perfume that isn't yours, or why there are three different Tweets about you breaking Melissa Thompson's heart last night.

"They're related to literature," he said, stretching in a way that made the tattoos ripple. The movement revealed another suspicious mark under his collar. "This one's from Paradise Lost." He pointed to a design that wound around his bicep. "And this sleeve is all Shakespeare."

"That's..." ...exactly the kind of pretentious thing a guy would get to impress girls who think quoting poetry makes you deep. "...against Rule 335."

My phone buzzed with a campus alert – someone had put soap in the library fountain again last night. The same night, Jack had allegedly been at that party. The timing was suspicious, to say the least.

"You've really thought about every possible situation, haven't you?" He leaned forward, and I caught a glimpse of another tattoo at his collar, right next to what was definitely a hickey. "Must have spent a lot of time thinking about me to come up with all these rules."

"I spent exactly as much time as necessary to maintain proper academic boundaries," I lied like I hadn't stayed up until 3 AM, adding Rule 479 about the prohibited use of literary quotes in potentially flirtatious contexts. "Especially given your recent... activities."

His expression sharpened. "My activities?"

"The swim team party? The library fountain? Or should we discuss how you managed to make two different girls cry in the same weekend?"

"Ah." That dangerous smile appeared. "Been keeping tabs on me?"

"It's hard not to when the entire campus is buzzing about your latest conquests." I pulled out my laptop, jaw tight. "Though I suppose that's easier than actually doing your assignments. How many have you missed this week? Three?"

His casual demeanor slipped for just a second. "Didn't realize my personal life was such a fascination for you."

"Did you read any of Wuthering Heights, or were you too busy living up to your reputation?"

"You believe everything you hear, don't you?" He sat forward; that lazy smirk was gone. "Tell me, Sophie, does it make it easier to judge me if you don't know the truth?"

"I know enough." I gestured to his neck. "The evidence is pretty clear."

"Really?" His voice had an edge now. "Then you must know I spent last night tutoring Mike in calculus. The swim team party? I was there for twenty minutes to pick up my drunk teammate before he did something stupid. But that wouldn't fit your perfect narrative about the campus bad boy, would it?"

"And the library fountain?"

"Check the cameras. I was in the gym until midnight." He leaned back, that mask of indifference sliding back into place. "But you'd rather believe the rumors. Makes it easier to keep your neat little world organized, doesn't it?"

I felt my face heat. "Then explain the..." I gestured vaguely to his neck.

"Birthmark," he said flatly. "But thanks for the character assessment. Always good to know where I stand with my oh-so-professional tutor."

Oh. Shame crept up my neck, but I pushed it down. "That doesn't explain your dating history. Or the missed assignments. Or—"

"Did you want to study," he cut me off, voice cold, "or did you just want to list all the reasons you think I'm beneath you?"

"I—"

"Because I've got practice in an hour, and I'd rather not waste time being judged by someone who thinks she knows my whole story based on Twitter gossip."

The silence that followed was thick with tension. He pulled out his copy of Wuthering Heights – extensively annotated, I noticed, with actual literary analysis – and began reading, deliberately ignoring me.

Way to go, Sophie. Real professional.

"You didn't let me finish," I said finally, softer. "I was going to say the missed assignments don't match your clear understanding of the material. Your analysis of Heathcliff's character development was..."

He glanced up. "Was what?"

"Insightful," I admitted. "Which makes the missing work more frustrating."

Something flickered in his eyes. "Maybe some of us have reasons for not living up to expectations."

"Like maintaining a carefully crafted reputation?"

His smile was bitter. "Rule 335, remember? No personal discussions."

"Maybe..." I took a breath. "Maybe we could suspend that rule. Temporarily."

He studied me for a long moment, and I tried very hard not to notice how the afternoon light turned his eyes almost gold. "Why? So you can gather more material for your judgments?"

"No, so I can understand why someone who clearly understands Victorian literature pretends he doesn't."

"You really want to know?" He leaned forward. "Or do you just want to confirm your theories about the bad boy who's wasting university resources?"

"I want to understand," I said honestly. "Even if it means admitting I might have been..."

"Wrong?"

"Hasty in my judgments."

His eyes searched my face, looking for something – mockery, maybe, or judgment. Whatever he saw made him sit back with a sigh, running a hand through his hair in a way that looked less practiced and more genuinely tired.

"Did you know," he said finally, "that I got my first hockey stick before I could walk? Family legacy and all that. Morrison men play hockey. It's what we do."

"And what about what you want to do?"

The question hung between us. He picked up his copy of Wuthering Heights, thumbing through pages that were filled with careful annotations in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

"Right now, I want to pass this class without having the entire campus know that the hockey team captain spends his Friday nights analyzing Victorian literature."

Oh, I thought. OH.

"The reputation isn't just about parties," I realized aloud. "It's protection."

"Rule 335," he reminded me without his usual smirk. "Though I have to say, watching you try to figure me out is pretty entertaining. Your face does this thing when your worldview gets challenged – like someone just reorganized your entire library system."

"It does not," I protested, even as I felt my nose scrunch in exactly the way he was describing. "And you're deflecting."

"Maybe." He leaned forward again; this time, I didn't lean back. "But so are you. Want to talk about why the rigid rule-maker spends so much time tracking the campus bad boy's movements?"

"I do not—" I started, but he held up his phone, showing my browser history from the library computers. My entire catalog of Jack Morrison-related research stared back at me.

"The library logs were very enlightening," he said, and that dangerous smile was back but different somehow. Less practiced, more genuine. "Especially your recent searches about literary tattoos and their psychological implications."

"That was for a paper," I lied. "A very academic paper about... modern expressions of classic literature?"

"Really? And I suppose 'do hockey players actually read' was also for academic purposes?"

My face was on fire. "How did you even get access to—"

"I'm good with computers." He shrugged. "Another thing that doesn't fit your narrative about the dumb jock, right?"

I stared at him, really looking this time. Beyond the carefully curated bad boy image, I could see something else – intelligence in how his eyes assessed me, sensitivity in how he handled his books, complexity in the literary quotes he'd chosen for his tattoos.

"Show me," I said suddenly.

"Show you what?"

"The Paradise Lost tattoo. The full quote."

He studied me for a moment, then slowly rolled up his sleeve. The tattoo was beautiful – intricate black ink forming angel wings around words I'd quote myself a hundred times: "Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light."

"Most people," he said quietly, "assume I got the rebellious quotes. Satan's speeches about ruling in Hell."

"But you chose the line about redemption," I finished. "About the difficult path to something better."

Something shifted in his expression – surprise, maybe, or respect. "Look at that. The uptight tutor can see past her own assumptions."

"And the bad boy has depth beneath his carefully constructed facade," I countered. "How terribly inconvenient for both our reputations."

He laughed then – a real laugh, not his usual calculated chuckle. It transformed his entire face, making him look younger and more genuine. More like someone I could actually...

"This doesn't change anything," I said quickly, even as my heart disagreed. "You still miss assignments, break rules—"

"And you still judge people before knowing their whole story," he finished. "Guess we've both got work to do."

He stood, gathering his things, but paused at the door. "For what it's worth," he said, not looking at me, "your article about Victorian literature's influence on modern storytelling was actually brilliant. Even if you did use it as an excuse to criticize sports funding."

My heart definitely didn't skip at that. "You read my articles?"

"Rule 335," he said with a ghost of his usual smirk. "Though I have to say, your comparison of hockey players to barbarians was a bit heavy-handed. Some of us barbarians appreciate good literature."

He left before I could respond, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air like an unfinished argument. I stared at my rulebook, suddenly aware of how many assumptions I'd written into its pages.

Maybe, a treacherous voice whispered in my head, some rules need to be rewritten.

I spent the next four hours updating my rules, trying to pretend I wasn't thinking about how the late afternoon light had caught gold in his eyes when he laughed. Or how his hands had gently cradled his book, betraying a love of literature that went beyond mere pretense. Or how that Paradise Lost tattoo hinted at depths I'd been too quick to dismiss.

The real problem wasn't that Jack Morrison broke rules. It was that he made me want to break them, too.

And that was far more dangerous than any bad boy reputation.