Desi Whitmore

I found Otto in the library's third-floor study section, hunched over a pile of textbooks with the kind of desperate concentration that suggested he was trying to lose himself in academic work.

He looked up when I approached, and the mixture of hope and wariness in his expression made my heart clench with protective fury. Someone had hurt him. Someone had made him doubt what we'd shared the night before.

"Hey," I said softly, settling into the chair across from him. ...