Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
StaleBread89: as they should be. Without Frost, the evolved wouldn’t function *that* cohesively, and Callie has an extreme amount of power, even if she struggles to control her lust.
Illyana_Dallas222: idk, she might be his downfall. That could be the direction they’re taking it (and I’ll be sad but I’d get it).
StaleBread89: then they’ll go down together, Illy. And he’d be at fault too.
Illyana_Dallas222: everyone will blame Callie though.
StaleBread89: we won’t 🤟
Illyana_Dallas222: Callie Stan Army
StaleBread89: coming to protect our girl. A force of two. Grab the swords, Illy.
Illyana_Dallas222: Got ‘em, SB! ⚔️ \(｡●́‿●̀｡)/ ⚔️
StaleBread89: ⚔️ you da best
11:32 a.m.
Illyana_Dallas222: are you watching the episode tonight with anyone?
StaleBread89: just me, myself & I. No one around me is that into it and my schedule is too unpredictable to get together to watch with friends. What about you?
Illyana_Dallas222: I’ll prob watch alone. None of my friends have gotten into it
StaleBread89: our friends dont have as good of taste
StaleBread89: I gotta make sure if we keep chatting, you’re above 18? Bc I’m an adult and if you’re underage, we shouldn’t be in a private chat
Illyana_Dallas222: Good call. I’m in my 20s. A girl. You?
StaleBread89: 30s. Guy. About to get in the car. Chat later?
Illyana_Dallas222: for sure. Happy Bass Watching!
StaleBread89: HBW 🙌
Illyana_Dallas222: 🙌
11
LUNA HALE
He’s in his thirties. And he really is a guy. My heart pitter-patters in excited, odd patterns. He wants to keep chatting, and a creep wouldn’t ensure that I’m an adult. StaleBread89 is proving to be a moral bean.
Sure, he could be in his late thirties, but is thirty-nine really that old? Henry Cavill, the literal Man of Steel, was smoking hot in his late thirties. I imagine salt-and-pepper sideburns and a defined jawline. He’s cute in my head. Handsome among all the handsome humans.
But I’m only twenty, even if I’m turning twenty-one in November. My dad is a big hater of age-gaps. So much that he often poked at Maximoff and Farrow’s measly five-year gap. An eighteen-year age-gap would likely put him in an early grave.
My excitement teeters like a seesaw.
My dad can’t control my life.
I take a breath and imagine StaleBread89 again, tuning out my professor at the whiteboard. I was messaging StaleBread before my class at Penn started, and even with my phone shut off in my pocket, I can’t stop daydreaming.
His schedule is unpredictable. Is he a firefighter?
A surgeon?
Maybe something else. A bartender or an intergalactic bounty hunter. I smile, imagining him out in space.
“Concentrate,” the professor says one word in his lengthy speech about DNA and gel electrophoresis that seizes my attention. Like he called me out, my face roasts, but he’s not even speaking directly to me or anyone for that matter.
I sink a little in my seat.
One month into the new semester and the college campus is noticeably less packed than it was weeks ago. The result of all the smart slackers realizing which classes they can skip and still make good grades.
I don’t have to worry much about failing or flunking out of college. I’m technically not a full-time student. I don’t belong to any program. I haven’t declared a major. The classes I take are graded, but it’s not like an “F” will count towards some resume I’m building.
Over the past two years, I’ve completed eight random courses (not counting the two this semester). Just eight makes me barely a sophomore, even though I’m not building towards a degree. It’s not a normal situation, and I doubt I’d even be accepted to an Ivy League without being associated to my mom, Uncle Ryke, and Uncle Connor.
All Penn alumni.
The Dean is even letting me cherry pick classes across the University’s curriculum. I do like to learn. Just on my own terms.
Even with the slackers skipping classes, there is one class that’s always filled to the brim.
Biology 1121. The Molecular Biology of Life.
It’s what my lab partner called the “weeding out” class for all the pre-med hopefuls. Professor Turner requires attendance, which means I had zero chance of taking this one online.
Eliot shifts forward, drawing my attention off daydreams and class. “I feel like I’m doing a drug deal,” he whispers behind me.
The seats next to me are taken. My left by Frog. My right by a temp bodyguard who’s young enough to blend into the whole college atmosphere.
I rotate a little to face Eliot’s row. “Just hand over the contraband,” I whisper back.
He slides the binder to me just as the professor says, “And it looks like we hit 12:30. Class dismissed. Remember to do your online worksheets before next lecture!” He yells that last part over the commotion of students. Everyone shuffles around, collecting their backpacks and sliding their laptops away.
I sense cellphones directed at me now that class is over, but I try to ignore the lenses. Still rotated toward Eliot, I say, “Thanks for dropping this off.” With my backpack on my lap, I shove the binder inside.