Meera's POV
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The shower.
The glass.
Him.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again.
The way water ran down his chest.
The muscles shifting under his skin.
The part of him I had never seen on any man.
The part that made my cheeks burn just remembering.
I sat in the guest room.
Stared at the wall.
Tried to study.
Failed completely.
Other girls at college talked about boys like this.
About noticing their bodies.
About feeling things.
I always thought they were exaggerating.
Making it dramatic.
Now I understood.
They weren't exaggerating enough.
---
He knocked two hours later.
"Meera?"
I jumped.
Pressed my hands to my hot cheeks.
"Yeah?"
"Can I come in?"
I wanted to say no.
Wanted to hide until the embarrassment faded.
But it wouldn't fade.
Not ever.
Not after what I saw.
"Fine."
He entered slowly.
Giving me time to adjust.
Like I was a wild animal he was trying not to scare.
It would have been funny if everything wasn't so confusing.
"I have your notes."
I blinked.
"What?"
"From class. The one you missed yesterday. I printed them for you."
He held out a folder.
Thick.
Organized.
Tabbed by subject.
I took it.
Stared at it.
"You printed me notes?"
"You missed class. You need to study. I got notes."
"From who?"
"Mine."
"You took notes?"
He shrugged.
"I take notes."
I didn't know what to say.
He had been in the same room during that attack.
Had killed people.
Had brought me to his fortress home.
And still, he thought about my class notes.
---
I opened the folder.
Scanned the pages.
His handwriting was neat.
Organized.
Detailed.
But the concepts blurred together.
I hadn't been in the lecture.
Didn't have the context.
Didn't understand the flow.
I sighed.
Pushed the folder away.
"This doesn't make sense."
"What part?"
"Any of it. I wasn't there. I don't know what the professor emphasized. I don't know which formulas he derived. It's just words on paper."
He watched me.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Then he moved.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Patted the space beside him.
"Come here, little star. I'll teach you."
I stared at him.
"You?"
"Yes."
"You don't even know this subject. You need my help remember? That's why I was assigned to you."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Gone before I could read it.
"Just sit. Let me try."
---
I sat.
Reluctantly.
Leaving space between us.
He pulled the folder closer.
Opened to the first page.
And then he started talking.
Within five minutes, my mouth was open.
Within ten, I was taking notes.
Within twenty, I understood everything.
Concepts I had struggled with for weeks.
Formulas that never made sense.
Derivations that felt like magic.
He explained them all.
Simply.
Clearly.
Like he had been teaching this subject for years.
I looked at him when he finished.
"What?"
"How do you know all this?"
He shrugged again.
Casual.
Dismissive.
"I read."
"You read?"
"Books. Articles. I pick things up."
"That's not possible. No one just picks up advanced algorithms. That's years of study."
"I'm a fast learner."
I stared at him.
At the man who needed my help.
Who sat behind me in class.
Who asked me to explain concepts.
Who pretended to struggle.
The truth hit me like ice water.
---
He never needed my help.
Not once.
Not ever.
All those hours in the library.
All those study sessions.
All those moments when I thought I was teaching him.
He knew it all already.
Better than me.
He let me explain things he already understood.
Let me feel smart.
Let me feel useful.
Let me feel like I mattered.
While he sat there.
Knowing everything.
Watching me.
Playing me.
I stood up.
Folder falling to the floor.
"You knew."
His expression shifted.
Careful.
Watchful.
"Knew what?"
"All of it. Every subject. Every formula. Every concept we studied together. You already knew."
He didn't deny it.
Didn't lie.
Just looked at me with those dark eyes.
"Meera—"
"You let me teach you. For weeks. You sat there and let me explain things you already understood. You asked questions you already knew answers to. You made me feel—" My voice cracked. "You made me feel helpful. Important. Needed. And it was all fake."
"It wasn't fake."
"Yes it was. Every second of it. You were playing me. Using me. Pretending to need me when you didn't need anything."
"I needed you."
"For what? Entertainment? Amusement? A way to pass time while you hid from whoever wants you dead?"
"I needed you near me. It was the only way."
The words hit like bullets.
The only way.
He needed me near him.
So he lied.
Cheated.
Manipulated.
For weeks.
I saw red.
Literally red.
The edges of my vision blurred.
Heat flooded my face.
My hands clenched into fists.
"You bastard."
He stood.
Slow.
Careful.
"Meera, calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down. Don't you dare tell me to calm down. You lied to me. Every day. Every moment. You made me feel stupid while you sat there knowing everything."
"I never made you feel stupid."
"You let me teach you. You asked questions. You pretended to need help. That's the same thing."
"It's not."
"It is."
I was shaking.
Trembling.
Everything I thought I knew about the past month was wrong.
Every moment I felt smart was a lie.
Every time I helped him, he was laughing inside.
Watching me struggle with things he already mastered.
---
He stepped closer.
I stepped back.
"Don't touch me."
"I'm not going to touch you."
"Don't come near me."
"Meera—"
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long were you planning this? From the beginning? From the first day you showed up in my class?"
He didn't answer.
The silence told me everything.
"All of it. Every second. You were playing me from day one."
"I was trying to get close to you."
"By lying? By cheating? By pretending to be something you're not?"
"Would you have talked to me otherwise? Would you have spent time with me if I walked up and said I'm Ethan Moretti, I'm obsessed with you, let me sit beside you every day?"
"No. But that doesn't make this okay."
"I know."
"You knew and you did it anyway."
"Yes."
The word was quiet.
Honest.
No excuse.
No defense.
Just yes.
I did it anyway.
---
Something snapped.
All the fear.
All the confusion.
All the embarrassment from this morning.
All the weeks of feeling special.
Feeling seen.
Feeling like someone wanted me for me.
It was all fake.
All manipulation.
All lies.
I swung before I thought.
My hand connected with his cheek.
Loud.
Sharp.
His head turned with the impact.
The room went silent.
I stared at my hand.
At his face.
At the red mark forming on his skin.
I hit him.
I actually hit him.
A mafia killer.
A man who murdered people last night.
I slapped him.
---
He didn't move.
Didn't react.
Just stood there.
Cheek red.
Eyes on me.
Unreadable.
"I'm sorry—" The words tumbled out. "I didn't mean—I just—you lied—I—"
"It's okay."
"It's not okay. I hit you. I never hit anyone. I don't—"
"It's okay, Meera."
He said it softly.
Gently.
Like I hadn't just struck him.
Like my anger was reasonable.
Like he deserved it.
Maybe he did.
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I hate that you lied."
"I know."
"I hate that I—" I stopped.
Couldn't finish.
Couldn't say it.
Couldn't admit that despite everything.
Despite the lies.
The manipulation.
The weeks of pretending.
I didn't hate him.
Not really.
Not the way I should.
---
He moved to the door.
Paused.
Looked back.
"For what it's worth... I never laughed at you. Not once. Every moment I spent with you, every explanation I let you give me, I cherished. Because it was time with you. Because I got to watch you think. Watch you figure things out. Watch you be brilliant in your own way."
"Don't."
"It's the truth."
"The truth. You keep saying that word. I don't think you know what it means."
Pain flickered across his face.
Brief.
Gone.
"Maybe I don't. But I know what you mean to me. And that's never been a lie."
He left.
Closed the door softly behind him.
I stood there.
Shaking.
Crying.
Wanting to scream and run and never see him again.
And underneath all of it.
A tiny voice.
Quiet.
Honest.
Saying things I didn't want to hear.
"You still want him."
"Even now."
"Even after everything."
"You still want him."
I hated that voice.
Hated it.
Because it was right.