Page 14 of The Equation of Us
“Your place, then,” he agrees. “Seven-thirty?”
“Seven-thirty,” I confirm, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
As I turn to leave, he says my name again.
I glance back. “Yes?”
“This doesn’t have to be complicated.” His expression is carefully neutral. “I can keep things separate if you can.”
The problem is, I’m not sure I can. Not when I feel like I have whiplash already just trying to keep up with him. Not when I wake up in the middle of the night, hot and restless, from dreams I can’t admit to anyone.
“Of course,” I say smoothly. “It’s just a project.”
Dean holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods once. “See you tomorrow, then.”
I walk away first, feeling his eyes on my back the whole time. It’s just a project, I repeat to myself.
But as I push through the lecture hall doors into the bright winter sunlight, all I can think about is him in my small dorm room. The way the space will shrink around his presence. How there will be nowhere to hide from whatever this is between us.
And the worst part?
I’m not sure I want to hide anymore.
Chapter Six
Finding Meaning
Nora
My afternoon lab section is chaotic—a spilled bacterial culture, a minor equipment malfunction, and a freshman who nearly faints at the sight of blood during our hematology demo. By the time I make it back to my dorm room, I’m exhausted and wired at the same time, my brain refusing to settle.
I try to focus on reading for tomorrow’s cognitive neuroscience seminar, but the words blur together, meaningless. After reading the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word, I slam the book shut and reach for my phone.
Three new messages—one from Sadie asking about dinner plans, one from my advisor about a schedule change, and one from an unknown number.
I got your number from the project contact sheet. Just confirming tomorrow, 7:30. – Dean
I stare at the text, my thumb hovering over the screen. How did a simple confirmation message manage to send a current of anticipation through me? It’s infuriatingly clinical, nothing suggestive about it. And yet.
Me:Confirmed. Room 342. Text when you get to the building and I’ll let you in.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then toss my phone onto the bed like it’s suddenly too hot to hold.
This is getting ridiculous. He’s just another student. Just a project partner. Just a guy I’m tutoring because he missed some deadlines.
Except he’s not. Not with the way he looks at me, not with what I know about him now, not with the quiet intensity that hums beneath his controlled exterior.
He doesn’t just want sex. He wants surrender.
And maybe—just maybe—I want to know what that feels like. Just once. Just to see.
But that would be crossing every line: ethical, professional, personal. I don’t do messy. I don’t take risks. I don’t let people close enough to see the parts of me I keep carefully hidden.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars, then reach for my jacket. I need air. Space. Perspective.
The campus is quiet as I walk, most students already at dinner or tucked away in evening classes. The cold air burns my lungs, but it helps clear my head.
I’m rounding the corner near the science building when I see him. Dean, standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of the entrance, deep in conversation with Professor Whitman from the engineering department.
