The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Chapter 309: 309 | My Best Subject Is Escalation [CASTLE BONUS]

She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. The bond carried her amusement alongside something warmer, anticipation for possibilities that had nothing to do with fugitive fantasies and everything to do with whatever space we might occupy across a cafeteria table without administrative doom hanging over us.

"We should probably get dinner," she said eventually, though her hand remained where it was.

"That would be the practical next step," I agreed.

Neither of us moved. The late afternoon light continued its slow slide across the windows, painting everything in gold and amber. Her skin caught the light in ways that made thinking difficult. Her eyes looked like fragments of summer sky. The cafeteria remained mostly empty around us, other students scattered at distant tables in conversations that couldn’t possibly carry the same tension as ours.

She tilted her head slightly, studying my face with the kind of focus that suggested she was reading something there I hadn’t consciously decided to show.

"Lukas."

"Yeah?"

"When this Percy situation is resolved..." She leaned forward. Her voice dropped into the register that bypassed rational thought entirely and connected directly to parts of my anatomy that had no business responding in public. "When we don’t have to worry about documentation fraud or regulatory violations or any of the other catastrophes currently threatening your academic career..."

She paused. Her thumb traced a deliberate line across my knuckles.

"I want to celebrate."

I managed to keep my expression neutral, which was genuinely impressive given what her proximity was doing to my pulse. "What kind of celebrating?"

"What kind of celebrating?"

"The kind that requires privacy. And time. And probably involves you learning exactly what I’m wearing under this training uniform."

The Oracle Feed pinged softly, flagging the comment for romantic progression tracking. My pulse jumped thirty beats per minute. The bond between us carried heat that had nothing to do with afternoon sunlight and everything to do with promises that made rational thought impossible.

"That’s a very specific kind of celebrating," I managed.

"I’m a very specific kind of person."

Her thumb traced across my knuckles, the touch casual and electric and completely unfair given our current location. The bond carried her satisfaction at my reaction, along with something deeper that felt like hunger barely held in check.

"Food," I said, because if we didn’t redirect this conversation immediately, I was going to do something that would get us both expelled for entirely different reasons than documentation fraud.

"Food," she agreed, though her thumb continued its movement against my skin. "But first, tell me about Professor Crane’s class."

Right. Isabelle Crane. The professor who wore domino masks to academic functions and looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine that catered specifically to authority figures with boundary issues.

"Professor Crane is..." I paused, searching for words that wouldn’t trigger Sloane’s territorial instincts. "Complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"Complicated like she teaches brand management while looking like someone who could personally rebrand the entire hero industry through superior intimidation tactics."

Sloane’s expression sharpened. "Is she attractive?"

"She’s Alistair’s mother."

"That’s not what I asked."

The Oracle Feed pinged softly, flagging the conversation’s trajectory. My pulse remained elevated. Sloane’s territorial instincts operated on frequencies that made standard relationship dynamics look simple, and the addition of attractive professors to my academic schedule was apparently going to require navigation strategies I hadn’t developed yet.

"She’s objectively attractive," I said carefully, "in the same way that nuclear weapons are objectively effective. Technically impressive, potentially devastating, probably shouldn’t be approached without proper safety equipment."

"So yes."

"So yes, but with significant hazard warnings attached."

The bond carried amusement mixed with something that wasn’t quite jealousy but wasn’t quite not jealousy either. Sloane’s grip on my hand tightened fractionally, her blue eyes holding mine with intensity that made the cafeteria feel smaller despite the afternoon crowd moving around us like water around stone.

"What did she say to you after class?"

"She invited me to office hours. Said I had interesting perspectives on brand management and career development."

"Interesting perspectives." Her voice flattened in ways that suggested she had opinions about those specific words and none of them involved academic enthusiasm.

"Her words, not mine."

"And you said?"

"I said I’d consider it."

Sloane’s thumb stopped its movement against my knuckles. Her expression shifted into something that looked calm and absolutely wasn’t, the same quality of stillness that preceded detonations in training rooms.

"Office hours with attractive professors who find your perspectives interesting. That’s definitely not going to cause problems."

"Are you worried?"

"I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about you." Her voice carried affection and exasperation in equal measure, both running at full strength simultaneously. "You have a documented tendency to attract complicated women with unclear motivations and flexible definitions of appropriate professional boundaries."

"Do I?"

"Camille. Petra. Felicity. Now Professor Crane. Also me, if we’re being honest about it." Her smile turned sharp. "I’m starting to see a pattern."

The Oracle Feed remained diplomatically silent, though I suspected it was taking notes for future reference. The System’s romantic tracking algorithms probably found my apparent magnetism for dangerous women either fascinating or deeply concerning, depending on how the metrics were calculated. The Temptation Gauge architecture suggested the System considered it a feature rather than a bug, which was not particularly reassuring given what features typically cost.

"So what’s your solution?" I asked.

"Simple. You go to office hours, you discuss whatever academic topics she wants to cover, you maintain professional boundaries, and you tell me everything that happens afterward." Her thumb resumed its movement against my skin, the touch light and deliberate. "Also, if she tries anything inappropriate, I get to have a conversation with her about respect and institutional authority."

The casual way she delivered that last part suggested her definition of "conversation" involved considerably more kinetic energy than standard academic disagreements typically required. Professor Crane was approximately twenty years older than us, significantly more experienced in every relevant metric, and probably not prepared for Sloane Fitzgerald’s particular approach to territorial disputes.

"That sounds like it could escalate quickly," I said.

"I’m extremely good at escalation." Her smile widened. "It’s my best subject."