Page 7 of The Good Student (Straight No More #2)

THE FIFTH FLOOR is eerily quiet. Unlike the bustling lower floors with their study areas and computer stations, this level is dedicated almost entirely to storage—rows upon rows of dusty shelves holding books that haven't been touched in decades.

The lights flicker overhead, casting strange shadows between the tall shelves. I walk past sections labeled "Medieval Literature" and "Ancient Greek Translations," looking for any sign of Asher.

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a question: What am I doing? Why did I ask him to come up here? What am I going to say?

Part of me hopes Asher won't show—that he'll have changed his mind, gone back to his paper, left me alone with my confusion. It would be easier that way. I could chalk last night up to a weird anomaly and move on with my life.

But another part of me, a part I'm trying desperately to ignore, hopes Asher is waiting for me.

I find him in a secluded corner, leaning against a shelf of leather-bound books with titles in languages I don't recognize.

He looks up as I approach, his expression guarded but expectant.

The sight of him—casual in his henley and jeans, yet somehow magnetic—sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach.

"So," Asher says, his voice low in the quiet space. "You wanted to talk."

Now that we're here, I find all my carefully planned words evaporating. I stare at him, at the way the harsh light catches in his dark hair, at the slight stubble along his jaw. My mind helpfully supplies the memory of how that stubble felt against my neck, and I shove the thought away violently.

"Last night," I finally manage, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "What was that?"

Asher raises an eyebrow. "I think it was pretty clear what it was."

"To you, maybe." My hands clench at my sides. Why is he being so nonchalant about this? Doesn't he understand how earth-shattering this is?

"What part needs clarifying?" Asher asks, crossing his arms. The movement makes his biceps flex under the thin fabric of his shirt, and I find my eyes drawn to them before I force my gaze back to his face. "We were attracted to each other. We acted on it. Simple."

"Simple?" I almost laugh, the sound edged with hysteria. "There's nothing simple about it. I'm not—" I stop, the word ' gay ' sticking in my throat like a physical obstruction.

‘ But are you sure about that ?’ a traitorous voice in my head whispers. Because straight guys don't typically get hard thinking about other men .

I push the thought away. One incident doesn't redefine my entire sexuality. It was just... an aberration. A moment of weakness.

"Not what?" Asher prompts, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"I don't do that," I say instead, the words coming out more defensive than I intended. "With guys."

"Except you did." Asher's tone isn't mocking, just matter-of-fact. "And from what I could tell, you enjoyed it."

I feel heat rush to my face, remembering how I'd come apart under Asher's touch, how I'd been unable to hold back the sounds of pleasure. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point, Philip?" Asher pushes off from the shelf, taking a step closer. "Why did you bring me up here?"

The proximity makes my heart rate spike. I take an instinctive step back, bumping into the shelf behind me. A book dislodges and falls to the floor with a dull thud that seems to echo my racing pulse.

"I wanted to..." I start, then stop. What did I want? To tell him it was a mistake? To make sure he wouldn't tell anyone?

‘ To see him again ,’ that same inner voice suggests. To see if he's as attractive in daylight as he was last night.

And damn it, he is. Even under the unflattering fluorescent lights, with a day's worth of stubble and slightly tired eyes, Asher is undeniably attractive. Not in the polished, pretty-boy way I usually associate with good looks, but in a raw, masculine way that makes my stomach tighten.

"You wanted to what?" Asher presses, taking another step closer. We're not touching, but I can feel the heat radiating from him, can smell that same cologne that's been haunting me since last night.

My mind races, contradictory thoughts colliding like bumper cars.

Part of me wants to flee, to get as far away from Asher and these confusing feelings as possible.

But another part—a part that's growing louder by the second—wants to close the distance between us, to see if last night's chemistry was real or just a product of the party atmosphere.

"I wanted to see if it was real," I admit finally, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Or if I imagined how good it felt."

Something flashes in Asher's eyes—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. "And how do you propose we test that theory?"

My mouth goes dry. This is the moment—the line I can't uncross once I step over it. Last night could be blamed on alcohol, on the party atmosphere, on temporary insanity. This would be deliberate. Chosen.

‘ Don't do it ,’ warns the part of me that's clung to a straightforward identity for twenty-one years. This isn't who you are .

But maybe it is part of who I am. Maybe it's always been there, this capacity for attraction to men—or at least to this particular man—and I've just never allowed myself to acknowledge it.

The thought terrifies me. If this one aspect of my identity has been hidden from myself, what else might I not know about who I truly am?

"I don't know," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I just know I can't stop thinking about it. About you."

The admission costs me something—pride, maybe, or the comfort of certainty. But it also feels like relief, like setting down a heavy weight I've been carrying.

Asher's expression softens slightly, becoming less guarded. "I can't stop thinking about it either," he admits, and the honesty in his voice catches me off guard. "About you."

We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with possibility. I find my gaze dropping to Asher's mouth, remembering the feel of those lips near my ear, whispering promises.

"I want you to..." I swallow hard, unable to finish the sentence. The words feel too explicit, too real to say out loud.

Asher's voice drops lower, a challenge in his tone. "Say it, Philip. If you want something, you have to be brave enough to ask for it."

Brave. Is that what this is? Bravery? Or is it recklessness?

‘ Both ,’ I decide. It's both terrifying and courageous to acknowledge what I want, to give voice to the desire that's been building since last night—no, if I'm honest with myself, since before that. Since the first time I noticed Asher and felt that inexplicable pull.

"I want your mouth on my cock," I blurt out, then immediately want to die of embarrassment. The crudeness of the words doesn't match the complexity of what I'm feeling, but it's all I can manage.

Asher doesn't laugh, doesn't mock me. Instead, his eyes darken, and he steps closer still, until our chests are almost touching. "Is that right?" he murmurs, his breath warm against my face. "You want me to suck you off? Here? In the library where anyone could walk in?"

The thought sends a thrill of both fear and excitement through me. "No one comes up here," I say, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

"You sure about that?" Asher's hand comes up to rest against the shelf beside my head, effectively caging me in. "Because if I get on my knees for you, I'm not stopping if someone walks by. You need to be sure."

My heart hammers against my ribs. This is insane. We're in a public place. We could get caught. We could get expelled.

But all I can think about is Asher's mouth, how it would feel, how it would look. The desire drowns out the voice of caution, of convention, of everything I thought I knew about myself.

"I'm sure," I whisper, and with those two words, I step over the line into uncharted territory.