Page 120 of The Equation of Us
“And flowers?”
“And flowers,” he agrees, pulling me closer.
I settle against him, my head finding that perfect spot on his chest where I can hear his heartbeat. Steady, like everything about him.
“What are you thinking about now?” he asks after a moment, his voice rumbling beneath my ear.
I consider the question seriously. There are a million things I could say—about tonight, about us, about the future that suddenly seems so much clearer than it did a month ago.
But what I say is: “Integration.”
“The calculus kind or the life kind?” His hand continues its soothing path along my spine.
“Both, maybe.” I trace patterns on his chest, following the definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. “How everything fits together. Variables and constants and the equation of us.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “And what’s the solution to that equation?”
I smile against his skin. “Still calculating. But I think we’re converging on something pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” There’s a smile in his voice. “That’s your professional assessment? ‘Pretty good’?”
I lift my head to look at him properly, taking in the relaxed set of his features, the warmth in his eyes, the curl that’s fallen across his forehead. I reach up to brush it back, the simple gesture feeling intimate in a way I can’t quite explain.
“Exceptional,” I amend. “Unprecedented. Statistically significant.”
“Now you’re just showing off,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.
“You like it when I show off,” I counter.
“I like everything about you,” he says, suddenly serious. “Even the parts that drive me crazy.”
“Especially those parts,” I suggest.
His laugh is warm against my skin. “Especially those parts,” he agrees, pulling me closer.
As his lips find mine again, I let myself melt into him, into us. The careful walls I’ve built for years, the defenses, the constant need for control—they don’t come down all at once. But withDean, they’re at least permeable. Selective barriers that let in exactly what I need.
And what I need, it turns out, is him.
Just him.
No conditions, no calculations.
Just us.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Victory Lap
Dean
Hockey banquets are a special kind of hell.
Mandatory attendance. Luke-warm buffet food. Speeches that run fifteen minutes longer than necessary. And every player forced into a suit that feels one size too small around the neck.
But this year is different.
This year, Nora is sitting beside me, her knee occasionally brushing mine under the white tablecloth. She’s wearing a simple black dress, nothing elaborate, but the way the material drapes across her collarbones makes it difficult to focus on Coach’s opening remarks.
