The Heir's obsession Chapter 6: The waiting game

Chapter 6

JULIAN POLE

Luka was still laughing when we tumbled into my room. He threw himself across my bed like he owned it, arms flung wide, while Rico sat at my desk, already doodling in that little notebook he carried everywhere. I dropped onto the floor with my back against the bedfra, tugging at the hem of my borrowed shirt. Jace’s shirt. Still slled like his detergent. Still fit too well for to pretend it wasn’t obvious.

And of course, Luka noticed first.

"Bro, you realize what this ans, right?" His voice was deadly serious, which ant it was absolutely not serious at all.

I groaned. "Don’t."

"You’re married now." He clutched at his chest like he’d just witnessed the grandest love story of our generation. "Professor Jace put his clothes on you. That’s like... sacred. That’s, like, vows."

Rico didn’t even look up from his sketchbook. "That’s not vows. That’s pity. Or dry-cleaning avoidance."

"Wrong," Luka shot back, rolling over so he could peer down at . "That’s destiny."

I tried to laugh it off, but the worst part? I kept replaying the whole car ride ho in my head. The way Jace had kept his eyes on the road, sharp profile lit by streetlights, like nothing about last night had rattled him. The way his voice had dropped lower when he said, ’Shower. Change. I’ll drop you ho.’ Not a suggestion. A command. And I’d just... listened. No fight. No smart coback.

You always have sothing for commands rember.

Stupid thoughts.

I tugged the shirt higher around my neck. "He didn’t even want there. I threw up on his shirt, rember?"

"Oh, please," Luka said. "You think he’d stick around all night watching you sleep if he didn’t care?"

I froze. "He—what?"

Luka grinned, sharp and satisfied. "Rico told ."

Rico finally glanced up, expression flat. "I didn’t. I just said he looked tired this morning."

"Sa thing!" Luka crowed, pointing at like he’d won a court case.

My face heated. I kicked Luka’s leg half-heartedly, but he just laughed harder, rolling out of reach.

"It’s not like that," I muttered, but even I could hear how weak it sounded.

The rest of Saturday bled into one long blur. Luka eventually passed out on my bed, limbs everywhere, snoring like a chainsaw. Rico left soti after lunch with a casual, "Don’t text unless you’re dying," which was his version of affection. That left alone with my thoughts—never a good thing.

I lay on the floor staring at the ceiling, still wearing the damn shirt. I told myself it was because it was comfortable, soft cotton, better than half the stuff I owned. But every ti I caught the faint clean scent of it, my stomach tightened.

Jace . My professor. The one who called out in front of everyone,, who told I was "wasting potential" like it was a cri. The one I’d sworn I couldn’t stand.

And yet.

He’d carried out. Stayed up all night. Let crash on his couch like... like I mattered.

I pressed the heel of my hand to my eyes. God, what’s wrong with ? I’d had crushes before, sure, but this was different. This was inconvenient. Dangerous.

My phone buzzed against the floor. I scrambled for it, pulse jumping before I even checked the screen. Not Jace.

Rico:Howork’s due Monday. Don’t bomb it.

I snorted, tossing the phone aside. But it reminded : Monday was coming. And with it, Jace’s so-called "tutoring."

I wasn’t sure if I wanted the weekend to end or stretch forever.

Sunday night dinners with Dad weren’t really dinners. They were interrogations disguised as als.

The house was too quiet without Mom. She was on the night shift at the hospital again, which left sitting across from my father at the dining table. Just us. His plate was half-empty, mine barely touched.

He carved into his steak like it had committed a cri. "You’ve been distracted."

I swallowed, fingers tightening around my fork. "I’m fine."

His eyes flicked up, sharp and unblinking. "Your grades don’t say fine. Your teachers don’t say fine. And word gets back to that you were seen... downtown." He said it like the word itself was dirty.

My stomach dropped. Of course he knew. He always knew.

"I wasn’t—" I started, but he cut off.

"Julian." Just my na, flat and heavy. It landed harder than yelling ever could. "You don’t get to waste your ti on parties. You don’t get to fall behind. You’re a Pole. That ans sothing. Or at least it should."

The words stung. Not because they were harsh, but because they were familiar. I’d heard them a hundred tis, in a hundred different forms.

"I’ll do better," I muttered, pushing cold potatoes around my plate.

"You will," he said firmly, setting his knife down. He leaned back in his chair, watching like he was waiting for cracks to show. "I don’t want to have to save you from your own mistakes, Julian. Not now, not ever."

Silence stretched across the table, broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock. I wanted to say sothing—anything—that would make him believe I was trying. That I wasn’t hopeless. That maybe I’d found help.

I kept my head down until he finally pushed back his chair and left the table, leaving with a plate of food I couldn’t eat and a knot in my chest that wouldn’t loosen.

By the ti I made it upstairs, I’d already made up my mind: I’d show up to that tutoring session. Not because I wanted to. Not even because Jace asked. But because failure wasn’t an option under this roof.

My room was dark except for the glow of my phone screen. I’d been staring at it for so long that the outline of the clock blurred every ti I blinked. Midnight ca and went.

I told myself I was just waiting for Luka or Rico to text, but the truth was obvious: I was waiting for him.

When the buzz finally ca, I nearly dropped the phone.

Jace:First tutoring session starts Monday. Don’t be late.

I bit back a smile, typing quick before I lost my nerve.

:Do I get to bring bodyguards?

Jace :you’ll need them.

:I’ll risk it.

I was grinning like an idiot, staring at the screen long after the chat went silent. The banter shouldn’t an anything. He was my professor. My tutor. My problem-solver for grades I couldn’t fix on my own.

So why did my chest feel lighter?

I rolled onto my back, the phone still clutched in my hand. Every ti I closed my eyes, I saw the sa image: the way he looked at in that chaos of flashing lights and gunfire. The way his arms steadied before the floor could.

Safe. That’s what it felt like. Safe in a place I had no business being.

My eyelids grew heavy, and the phone slipped lower against my chest.

My last thought before sleep dragged under was one I shouldn’t have admitted even to myself—

I wanted Monday to co faster.

But I also wasn’t ready for it.