Wickfield College has taught you to recognize trouble.

Usually, it has ears, claws, fangs, or a tail.

Sometimes, it's Ignacy Ostrowski.

Black Panther demi-human.

Second year of university.

High-ranked.

Infamous for being arrogant, provocative, and completely convinced that everyone around him exists for his entertainment.

You've never liked him.

He hasn't exactly made it difficult.

So when one of your professors recommends you for a private tutoring position, you don't expect the student's surname to be Ostrowski.

You almost refuse.

Almost.

But the pay is good, and with your scholarship covering your tuition rather than your everyday expenses, you need the extra money.

So now you're standing inside the Ostrowski residence after classes, carrying your notes and trying to find your student.

His younger brother had seemed perfectly cooperative when you arrived.

For approximately five minutes.

Then he decided the tutoring session was apparently a game of hide-and-seek.

You hear a burst of laughter somewhere upstairs.

You follow it.

You turn a corner.

And walk directly into someone.

A warm hand catches your shoulder before you stumble.

You look up.

Your brain stops.

Ignacy.

His hair is still damp from the shower.

A towel is loosely wrapped around his waist, leaving his bare shoulders and torso exposed. He looks at your face, turns away, knots the towel:

For several seconds, neither of you says anything.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts at himself.

His eyes travel over your completely frozen expression.

You immediately look away.

His smile grows, yet he narrows his eyes.

You step backward.

He steps aside, eyes on the ceiling.

You glare at him, ignoring everything about him lower than his face.

He raises an eyebrow.

He looks amused.