Page 77 of The Equation of Us
I understand why she needed space during her period. I respect it, even. But understanding doesn’t make the wanting any less intense. Doesn’t stop me from waking up hard and aching, her name on my lips. Doesn’t prevent me from taking longer showers, my hand a poor substitute for her touch.
“So the integration of force over distance,” Nora says, pointing to an equation in my mechanics textbook. “You’re calculating it incorrectly here.”
We’re in study room C3—tucked away on the fourth floor of the science building, far enough from main traffic that we rarely get interrupted. The space is small, just a table and four chairs, frosted glass partitions. Private. Isolated.
But still dangerous.
I glance at the problem she’s referencing, but all I can focus on is her hand on the page, her slender fingers tracing the equation. All I can think about is those same fingers on my skin last week, digging into my shoulders, tangling in my hair.
I pull a folded piece of paper from my notebook and slide it across the table. “Before we get into that, I have something for you.”
She looks up, momentarily distracted from the equations. “What’s this? Your practice quiz?”
“Take a look,” I say, keeping my voice casual despite the deliberate nature of this gesture.
She unfolds it with the methodical precision I’ve come to expect from her. The moment she registers what she’s looking at, her eyes widen slightly, then quickly return to their usual composed state. But the flush that starts at her neck and spreads upward to her cheeks gives her away.
Her eyes catch the header: “Dean Jackson Carter,” followed by a series of test results. All negative.
“This is…” she begins, then trails off, clearing her throat.
“My STI results,” I confirm. “From Tuesday.”
She folds the paper quickly, as if someone might see it over her shoulder, then tucks it into her notebook. The pink flush has now spread across her entire face, down her neck, undoubtedly continuing beneath the collar of her shirt.
“You could have just told me,” she says, her voice slightly lower than normal.
“I wanted you to have the official documentation.” I lean forward slightly. “No room for misinterpretation.”
She nods, avoiding my eyes in a way that tells me she understands exactly what I’m suggesting.
Something shifts in her expression—surprise giving way to understanding, then to something warmer. We can be careful…Condoms every time. But this—this is planning ahead. This is thinking about possibilities.
“We can still use condoms, if that’s what you want, for birth control reasons, but I wanted you to feel comfortable.”
I can tell she’s touched by this. “I take birth control to regulate my periods.”
I nod once, satisfied for now. “Now, where were we?”
“Integration of force,” she says, recovering her professional tone, though the flush remains. “As I was saying, you’re calculating it incorrectly here.”
“Dean?” She looks up, brow furrowed. “Are you listening?”
“No,” I admit, my voice rougher than intended.
She sighs, setting down her pencil. “This material is important. The midterm is—”
“I know when the midterm is.” I lean back in my chair, maintaining a fragile hold on my control. “I just can’t concentrate right now.”
“Why not?” But the slight flush creeping up her neck tells me she already knows.
I hold her gaze, letting her see exactly what I’m thinking.
Her lips part slightly, that perfect pink mouth that’s been haunting my dreams.
“Is your period over?”
She blinks once. “Yes.”
