CHAPTER 167: HOW CHARM LUNA

"Did you think I wouldn’t?" I asked, trying to sound casual while my brain performed Olympic-level gymnastics.

"Well, considering you’re apparently internet famous for assaulting a vice principal today, I thought you might have other priorities." Her tone wasn’t judgmental. It was like she was amused by the idea that I could survive the world without a seatbelt.

"That’s... complicated," I muttered, sliding into the chair across from her.

Close enough to smell her now. Subtle perfume. Expensive. Vanilla, but with a hint of "maybe I’ll make a terrible decision tonight." Gold flecks in her brown eyes caught the light and mocked me gently. And her lipstick—slightly smudged from chewing her bottom lip while studying—made me think I’d get distracted if I stared too hard.

"I’m sure it is." She pushed a coffee toward me. Our fingers brushed. One second. One electrical second that made me seriously consider thanking the universe for small, cruel miracles. "Medium roast. No sugar. Figured anyone who reads medical journals for fun takes their coffee seriously."

"Good guess."

"Not a guess. Deduction." That grin, crooked and playful, should have been illegal. Christ, when she smiled like that, she looked younger. Softer. Human. Approachable. Should be out of my league, but still... possible? Well, I was your normal teenager, not anymore.

"So," she leaned forward, sweater dipping just enough to break the laws of physics without calling OSHA, "ready to blow my mind with your understanding of beta-blocker pharmacokinetics?"

’She’s not asking about the arrest. Not judging. Just... rolling with it like it’s part of the package. Like maybe I’m not a disaster, just... interesting.’

"Always," I said, trying not to stare. Tried being the operative word. The universe had made her sweater a weapon of mass distraction but in my heart before my pants. "But first, what’s giving you the most trouble?"

She flipped her textbook around like it was some kind of cryptic puzzle. The diagram inside looked like someone had attempted to map the Tokyo subway system while drunk. "Selective versus non-selective beta blockade in emergency situations. When to use what and why."

’Great. She’s asking about medicine. And I’m supposed to be sixteen who can barely figure out what I’m supposed to wear to avoid being assassinated by Ray’s monologues. I have really outran my age and expectations. I’m... so divine for my age.’

As she explained her confusion, she shifted closer, turning the textbook so we could both see it. Close enough that my personal space filed a formal complaint. Warmth radiated off her like a subtle weapon. Her knee pressed against mine under the table.

She either didn’t notice—or noticed and decided to file her own complaint.

"My professor explains it in pure chemistry terms," she said, frustration painting her voice in bright, angry colors. "All receptor binding affinity and molecular structure, but nothing about real-world applications."

’Right, because nothing says fun like translating molecular tantrums into human consequences by a teenager.’

"Okay, forget the chemistry for a second," I said, forcing focus on the actual subject instead of how her hair smelled like coconut shampoo and a very bad decision. "Think about what you’re trying to achieve. Non-selective blocks both beta-1 and beta-2, so you get cardiac effects plus bronchospasm risk."

Without thinking, I grabbed her pen, leaned across the table, and sketched a diagram on her notepad.

That meant my arm brushed hers. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t even twitch. The faint freckles across her nose appeared almost deliberately, like some cruel angel had placed them there to ruin my ability to think straight.

"Selective focuses on beta-1," I continued, mentally trying not to melt, "so you get—"

"Cardiac specific without the respiratory complications," she finished, her voice softer now, curving around the edges like warm chocolate. "So in asthma patients—"

"Selective only. Atenolol, metoprolol." I looked up from the diagram. She was staring at me, and I couldn’t read her expression. Maybe approval. Maybe amusement. Maybe ’I-know-you’re-dying-inside-but-I’m-going-to-watch.’ She knew the way she was dressed was making my mind imagine five or more positions I am going to fuck her in after here.

"Non-selective, like propranolol, could trigger fatal bronchospasm."

"Right," she whispered. "That makes sense."

The air between us thickened, electric, layered with something far beyond pharmacology. Coffee shop buzzed around us—laptops clacking, baristas yelling—but we were in a private bubble.

Her eyes flicked to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Faint pink blossomed across her cheeks.

"So, um," she cleared her throat, pulling back a fraction, "what about intrinsic sympathomimetic activity? My professor mentioned it but didn’t explain it well."

’Here we go. The professor mentioned it. She didn’t understand. And now, by the universe’s cruel sense of humor, she’s within arm’s reach of me.’

The next hour was a strange choreography of education and tension. Every concept I explained, she absorbed like it was life or death. Bite lip. Lean closer. Hand brushing mine when she reached for coffee. Tiny contact, but electric enough to register on a Richter scale in my chest.

At one point, she finally got excited about a concept and grabbed my arm to demonstrate it. Squeeze, thumb tracing a tiny circle on my forearm. I felt it through my shirt. My brain short-circuited.

Her eyes widened just slightly. She felt it too. But she didn’t let go. Not yet.

"This is incredible," she said, holding my arm like a lifeline. "You’re making more sense in an hour than my professor has all semester."

’Yeah. And my chest and boxers are about to file a formal complaint for overuse. Congratulations, Valentina. You just ruined my ability to concentrate on medicine without fighting my boner.’

"You’re a quick learner," I said, every nerve in my body painfully aware of where her skin had touched mine.

"Or you’re a really good teacher." She finally let go of my arm, but stayed leaning close, invading my personal space like it was a naturally sanctioned crime. "Seriously, Peter, how do you know all this? And don’t give me that ’I read a lot’ bullshit."

’Because I have supernatural intelligence and a system that can download medical knowledge directly into my brain. But sure, let’s go with the gifted kid narrative.’

"I’ve always been good at understanding systems," I said. True enough. "Medicine is just another system. Plus, when something interests me, I go deep."

"And medicine interests you?" She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting like mischief had rented space there. "Or is it just the opportunity to impress older women with your big brain?"

’Is she flirting? That sounded like flirting. Not subtle either.’

"Can’t it be both?"

She laughed. Pure, high-pitched, ’look at these losers noticing’ laughter. Several guys nearby glared at me like I had just declared war on their fragile egos. Valentina? She didn’t care. She never did.

"Smooth talker," she said, still smiling, leaning back just enough to make her sweater pull in ways that made my mouth dry. "Though I have to admit, discussing beta-blockers with you is the most fun I’ve had all week."

"Your life must be really boring if pharmacology discussions are the highlight," I said, keeping my tone casual while my brain filed a formal complaint about how hard it was to focus.

"My life is school, work, and more school," she admitted, twirling her coffee cup absentmindedly. "I haven’t had a real conversation with someone in months. It’s all study groups where people whine, or work where teenagers pretend they’re not staring at me like I’m meat."

’Guilty as charged on that second one.’

"Must be tough, being that attractive in high school," I said before my brain could veto the statement.

She blinked. Her expression registered surprise, like I’d fired a missile into her calm academic universe. "Did you just call me attractive?"