A Lesson in Loving You

Chapter 2 — Unfiltered Demands

The administrative corridor was silent except for the heavy, uneven rhythm of Maitê’s breathing. She stared at Inácio, her hazel eyes locked onto his, searching for any sign of a flinch, a c***k, or the usual mocking glint behind his dark obsidian gaze. There was none. He stood his ground, towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking the hallway's amber light.

"You're out of your mind," Maitê whispered, her voice low and tight. She pulled back half a step, needing air, needing space from the cedarwood-and-rain scent that drifted off him. "You think ruining my autonomy is some kind of twisted game? A way to keep yourself entertained?"

Inácio didn't move away. Instead, he slowly straightened, his unbuttoned blazer shifting over his chest as he folded his arms. "It’s not a game, Vilanova. It’s practical. You want the Merit Gold Medal so you can run away from whatever disaster is waiting for you at home, and I need the top rank so my father stops treating my existence like an underperforming portfolio. We both need a hundred percent on this Capstone."

Maitê’s jaw set. "I don't need your help to get a hundred percent. I’ve maintained a ninety-eight point six average for three years without a single cent of Burlamaqui money."

"And yet," Inácio drawled, a shadow of his infuriating smirk returning to his lips as he tapped the blue master syllabus in his hand, "here we are. Tied together by an absolute administrative directive. Unless you're planning to forfeit your honors standing out of pure spite?"

"I'm going to get Silveira to revoke the clause," she said, her tone absolute. "I don't care how many checks your father writes."

She turned on her heel, her pleated skirt swishing sharply as she marched toward the stairwell.

"Maitê."

Her name on his tongue sounded different—lacking the usual sarcastic edge he used in public, heavy with an unexpected weight. She paused at the top of the marble stairs, refusing to look back.

"She won't break the contract," Inácio called out softly, his footsteps echoing as he walked up behind her, stopping just two steps below. The height difference vanished, placing his eyes directly level with hers. "Silveira’s tenure grant is tied to that research wing. She won't risk it for your pride, and she certainly won't risk it for mine. We’re in this, like it or not."

Maitê turned her head slightly, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "Then hear me loud and clear, Inácio: I drive the methodology. I set the schedule. You will submit your research sections forty-eight hours before every deadline so I can audit every single letter. You will not drag my name down with your lazy, last-minute improvisation."

Inácio stared at her for a long, silent beat. His eyes trailed over her tense, high cheekbones, her set jaw, and the subtle, defensive tremor in her fingers. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face—not the lazy playboy mask he showed the school, but something raw and intrigued.

"Fair enough," he murmured, leaning closer until his lips were inches from her ear. "Setting ground rules already? I like a dictator. But if I’m giving you control over my draft, you’re giving me your afternoons."

"What?" she snapped, flinching back from the warmth of his breath.

"Our first working session. Today. Three o'clock at the municipal library downtown," Inácio said, leaning back and shoving his hands into his pockets. "Off campus. Away from my brother, away from your color-coded fan club, and away from the school's eyes."

"I have a structured study schedule at home—"

"Your home is a warzone, Vilanova," he interrupted smoothly, his gaze piercing right through her carefully constructed defenses. "And you can't focus when you're waiting for the glass to break. Three o'clock. Don't be late, or I'll start writing the methodology myself—with passion."

Before she could process the shock of him mentioning her home, Inácio turned and walked down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the hollow stairwell.

At 2:45 PM, Maitê was already sitting at a secluded table in the far corner of the Porto Alegre Municipal Library. High arched windows framed the gray autumn sky, casting a cool, quiet light over rows of ancient leather-bound books. She had set up her workstation with surgical precision: her laptop on the left, her leather planner open to a fresh page, and three highlighters laid out in strict parallel alignment.

Her mind was a chaotic loop. How did he know? How could Inácio possibly know about the quiet, freezing hostility in her house? She had been meticulous about keeping her personal life hidden, never letting a single tear or c***k show in front of her peers. The thought that he had seen past her armor made her stomach twist with a dangerous mixture of exposure and panic.

The chair across from her pulled back with a quiet scrape.

Inácio dropped a heavy leather messenger bag onto the floor and sat down. He had traded his school uniform for a dark fitted sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing his lean, muscular forearms. His raven hair was still damp from the drizzle outside.

"You're fifteen minutes early," he noted, pulling out a steaming paper cup and sliding it across the polished oak table toward her. "Black coffee. Two drops of stevia. No milk."

Maitê stared at the cup, then at him. "Are you stalking my dietary preferences now?"

"You buy the exact same drink from the courtyard kiosk every morning at 7:40 AM," Inácio said simply, pulling out his own notebook—a plain, unbranded black pad. "It’s called observation, partner. Now, open the syllabus."

Maitê swallowed hard, her hand reaching for the warm cup despite her instincts warning her not to accept anything from him. The coffee was exactly how she liked it. She cleared her throat, shaking off the sudden warmth rising in her chest, and opened her laptop.

"The thesis topic is regional economic integration," she began, her voice dropping into her professional, controlled tone. "I've already outlined five core sub-sectors. I will take the primary data synthesis and quantitative analysis. You will take the historical context, provided you actually read the reference materials."

Inácio leaned back, resting his chin in his hand, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her face rather than the screen. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Building a wall," he said softly. "You're treating this thesis like an evacuation plan. Relax your shoulders, Maitê. The roof isn't falling in right now."

"My shoulders are perfectly fine," she lied, her muscles instantly tensing further under his intense, unblinking scrutiny. "We are here to work, Inácio, not to discuss my physical posture."

"If we're sharing a grade, your stress is my business," Inácio replied. He reached across the small table, his long, warm fingers lightly brushing against her wrist where her pulse was jumping wildly beneath her skin. "Look at me."

Maitê froze. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a sharp, electric shock straight up her arm. Her hazel eyes snapped up to meet his. Up close, in the dim, quiet light of the library archives, his eyes weren't just dark—they held deep golden flecks that caught the amber lamplight.

"I know you don't trust me," Inácio said, his voice dropping into a low, steady register that felt entirely too intimate for the quiet room. "I know you think I’m just a spoiled legacy kid taking up space. But I’m not going to ruin this for you, Maitê. I won't let my father use you, and I won't let you drown yourself in work just to feel safe."

Maitê’s breath caught in her throat. For a fraction of a second, the defensive walls she had spent four years constructing felt dangerously thin, almost fragile against the sheer weight of his presence. She looked at his hand resting near hers, then at the faint scar along his jawline, wondering for the first time what lay beneath his smooth, untouchable exterior.

She slowly pulled her wrist back, breaking the contact, though her skin still burned where his fingers had rested.

"Just... do your part of the research, Inácio," she murmured, her voice losing its sharp, defensive edge for the first time since they had met.

Inácio watched her for a long moment, the quiet intensity in his gaze softening into a faint, satisfied smile. He opened his notebook, picking up a pen.

"Page one," he said quietly, his voice smooth and reassuring in the quiet

library. "Let's get to work, querida."