Page 126 of The Equation of Us
It’s not a suggestion. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation as his mouth moves lower. The mental to-do lists, research concerns, and domestic logistics that constantly cycle through my brain begin to recede, replaced by the immediate physical reality of Dean’s touch.
This has always been his gift—the ability to pull me out of my analytical mind and into the present moment. To make me stop calculating, stop planning, stop trying to control every variable.
“That’s it,” he says approvingly as I arch beneath him. “Right here with me now.”
Later, when we’re both sated and I’m curled against his side, I trace patterns on his chest, following the familiar contours of muscle.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his fingers drawing lazy circles on my bare shoulder.
“The statistical improbability of us,” I answer truthfully. “All the variables that had to align perfectly. If my advisor hadn’t assigned me to tutor you. If Daphne hadn’t broken up with you. If you hadn’t been so infuriatingly controlled that I needed to see what would happen if you lost that control…”
Dean laughs softly, the sound rumbling beneath my ear. “You make it sound like a scientific anomaly. Maybe some things are just meant to be.”
“Says the man who once counted the minutes since he’d last touched me.”
“Seven days, thirteen hours, and twenty-two minutes,” he recites from memory, making me smile. “I stand by my methods.”
The baby monitor on the nightstand crackles with Emma’s soft snores. Outside, the late afternoon sun slants through the blinds, painting stripes across our tangled limbs. In the distance, I can hear the university bell tower chiming the hour.
“Do you ever wonder,” I ask, “what would have happened if I hadn’t let you tie my wrists with those hockey laces that day in the study room?”
Dean’s arm tightens around me. “No.”
“No?” I prop myself up to look at him.
“No,” he repeats, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture that has become so familiar it feels like a part of me. “Because even if that hadn’t happened then, something else would have. Different variables, same result.”
“That’s very unscientific,” I point out.
“Maybe.” He smiles, that rare full smile that still makes my heart skip. “Or maybe it’s just a different kind of equation. One with only one possible solution.”
“Us,” I supply.
“Us,” he agrees. “No matter what.”
The baby monitor crackles again, this time with Emma’s awakening babbles. Our brief stolen moment is ending, reality beckoning with dirty dishes, bath time routines, and the perpetual cycle of domestic life.
But as Dean kisses me once more before we rise to face the chaos, I’m struck by the perfect accuracy of his assessment.
Turns out we’re the simplest equation of all—Dean plus Nora equals everything.
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