Page 12 of The Equation of Us
I swallow hard, pushing the thought away. “We’re going to be late for bio-psych if we don’t hurry.”
“Always the responsible one,” Sadie teases, but she grabs her bag and follows me out.
Professor Linley is already setting up when we slide into the lecture hall, two minutes before the hour. His TA is distributing handouts while students filter in, the room slowly filling with the background hum of conversations and shuffling papers.
“I hate project weeks,” Sadie mutters, slouching in her seat. “Why can’t we just take another exam?”
“Because Linley believes in ‘practical application of theoretical concepts,’” I say, mimicking his pompous tone.
She rolls her eyes. “Translation: he’s too lazy to grade tests.”
I laugh, then freeze as I spot a familiar figure entering the lecture hall. Dean. I’d forgotten he was in this class—he always sits in the back, and I’m always near the front. Our paths don’t usually cross.
But today, as if he can sense me watching, his eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t smile, just holds my gaze for a beat too long before taking his usual seat.
My pulse kicks up, and I force myself to look away. This is ridiculous. I’ve shared classes with him for two years. There’s no reason for this sudden awareness, this strange gravity between us.
Except now I know things about him I didn’t before. Things that make me see him differently.
He doesn’t just want sex. He wants surrender.
Professor Linley clears his throat, calling the class to attention. “Good morning, everyone. Today we’re starting the partner projects I mentioned last week. You’ll be working in pairs to design and conduct a small-scale observational study based on the cognitive mechanisms we’ve been discussing.”
Sadie leans over to whisper, “Dibs on being your partner.”
“And to ensure diversity of perspective,” Linley continues, “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning partnerships based on complementary academic backgrounds.”
A collective groan ripples through the room. Sadie drops her head to the desk with a quiet thud.
Linley begins reading names from his list, pairing psychology majors with students from other disciplines. I half-listen, jotting down ideas for the project, until—
“Nora Shaw and Dean Carter.”
My pen freezes against the paper. Slowly, I turn to look across the room. Dean is already watching me, his expression unreadable.
“Your partner assignments are final,” Linley says over renewed murmurs of complaint. “Take the rest of the class period to meet with your partner and begin brainstorming. Project proposals are due next Monday.”
Sadie gives me a sympathetic look as she gathers her things. “Have fun with the hockey bro,” she whispers, nodding toward Dean. “Try not to murder him.”
“No promises,” I mutter, but my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with annoyance.
Students shuffle around the room, finding their assigned partners. I stay in my seat, refusing to be the one to move. Achildish power play, maybe, but I need to maintain some sense of control here.
After a moment, Dean appears beside my desk, silent and watchful. He doesn’t sit immediately, just stands there until I look up at him.
“Nora,” he says, his voice neutral.
“Dean.” I gesture to the empty seat beside me. “Looks like we’re stuck together.”
He slides into the chair, setting his notebook on the desk. “Seems that way.”
Up close, I notice things I didn’t before. The faint circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. The small scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s constantly aware of the space he occupies. Which is, well, a lot of space. He’s easily six foot two, I’d guess.
“So,” I say, forcing my voice to stay professional. “What’s your interest in biopsychology?”
“Neural feedback systems.” He meets my eyes directly. “Specifically in prosthetic applications.”
That surprises me. It’s more specific than I expected. “For your engineering focus?”
