Page 30 of The Equation of Us
Chapter Eleven
Controlled Burn
Nora
Dean’s apartment is both exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined.
The building itself is unassuming—a renovated warehouse a mile off campus, converted into lofts with exposed brick and industrial fixtures. His is on the third floor, at the end of a long hallway with concrete floors that echo under my boots.
I hesitate outside his door, number 307, my knuckles raised to knock. My heart is beating too fast, my palms slightly damp. I could still leave. Text some excuse about a paper or a headache. Return to the safety of my organized life and well-ordered plans.
But I don’t want to.
For once in my life, I want to step off the carefully constructed path I’ve laid out. I want to see what happens when I let go.
I knock, three short raps.
The door opens almost immediately, like he was waiting just on the other side. Dean stands there in dark jeans and a gray henley that clings to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal muscled forearms. He smells good—like soap and something woodsy, maybe cedar.
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.
“Hey,” I respond, suddenly awkward despite everything we’ve said, everything we’ve agreed to.
He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
I step inside, immediately taking in details. The apartment is open concept, with high ceilings and large windows that look out over the town. The furnishings are minimal but intentional—a dark leather couch, a sturdy coffee table stacked with engineering journals, and bookshelves filled with texts on biomechanics and sports medicine. One wall is exposed brick; the others are painted a cool gray. A large desk in the corner holds a dual-monitor setup and what looks like technical drawings for a prosthetic limb.
“Nice place,” I say, unwinding my scarf.
“Thanks.” He takes my coat, hanging it on a hook by the door. “Roommate moved out last semester. Found a cheaper place with his girlfriend.”
“So you live alone?” I try to keep my voice casual, but the implication hangs in the air. We have privacy. Complete privacy.
“Yeah.” He gestures toward the kitchen area. “Want something to drink? Water? Soda? I have wine somewhere.”
“Water’s fine.” My throat feels dry, nerves making themselves known despite my attempts to stay
calm.
He moves to the kitchen, and I take the opportunity to look around more. There are surprisingly personal touches scattered throughout the apartment: a framed hockey jersey on one wall, a shelf of vinyl records, a photograph of a younger Dean with what must be his family—parents and a younger brother. And another photo, tucked on a bookshelf: two teenage boys in hockey gear, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, faces split with identical grins. Maybe Dean and Jesse, I think. Before.
“Here.” Dean returns with a glass of water, ice clinking against the sides.
“Thanks.” I take a sip, grateful for something to do with my hands. “So…”
“So,” he echoes, watching me with those intense gray eyes.
The air between us feels charged, electric. We’ve been building to this moment for weeks—maybe since that first tutoring session. We both know why I’m here, what we’ve agreed to. But now that I’m standing in his apartment, it feels suddenly, terrifyingly real.
“Second thoughts?” he asks, his voice neutral, giving me space to change my mind.
I set the glass down on the counter. “No.” I meet his eyes. He’s so much taller than I am that I’m forced to lift my chin and look up at him. “You?”
“No.”
He doesn’t move toward me, though. He just continues watching me with that careful attention that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in his world worth looking at.
It’s unnerving—having his complete attention like this.
