Page 127 of The Love Operation

“Then let me test you,” he says.

And he does. He fires off question after question with a smirk.

I answer all of them, then I grab my notebook. “Okay, your turn.”

He shakes his head. “I learn best by osmosis.”

“You know what Delenn says?”

He arches a brow. “‘Test yourself often. Retrieval strengthens memory.’ I know.”

“Then let’s go.”

I quiz him. He knows some, but not nearly enough.

“Benedict,” I groan. “We’re going to be here all night. You don’t know this. How long have you been staring out the window while I studied?”

“I’m tired, Spinal Cord,” he says. “And I’m not like you. I don’t need to be at the top of the class. Somewhere in the middle is fine.”

“That’s a terrible attitude. In my family—”

“I know.” He cuts me off, then smiles a half-hearted smile. “You have to be the best. But that’s you. I’m just . . . a privileged White guy. Does it even matter?”

My face falls. I know he’s joking, but it hits something raw. I pretend he didn’t say it.

I grab his face between my hands. “I want to change the world with you. Together. From the top.”

His weak smile wavers. “Right. The plan.”

“Our plan,” I say, and kiss him, hoping to shift the mood.

He kisses me back like he’s been waiting for it. His hands skim my waist. His fingers curl against my back. He deepens the kiss.

I pull away. “We can’t get distracted.”

“Of course not,” he says, voice low. “Urea is calling.”

From my bed, staring up at the ceiling, I replay the whole thing.

At the time, it felt playful, warm, and normal. But something was off. Not loud. But there.

His aloofness. The quiet retreat behind jokes.

This feels like a crack, at least the beginning of one. I definitely didn’t see it then, but I see it now. But here, he’s not pulling away from me. He’s pulling away from the work.

The next memory doesn’t ask permission. It’s not one I consciously choose. It just shows up, uninvited, and I’m dropped straight inside it.

Anxiety curls hot and tight in my chest. I’d fallen asleep studying—slept through my alarm—and missed the start of the exam. I’d called Benedict in full hysterics, then hung up on him when I realized I was wasting time explaining.

My lungs burn as I sprint across campus. My legs ache. The slick pavement makes every stride a risk.

I don’t do this. I never do this.

I can’t believe I’ve done this.

“Cordelia!”

I hear my name, sharp and searching, but it bounces off brick and stone, the source untraceable.