Page 81 of The Equation of Us
I laugh softly, carefully helping her climb off the table. We clean up and rearrange our clothing with the efficiency of people aware they’re in borrowed time and space. I gather our scattered books while Nora smooths her hair, returning to the composed, controlled woman most people see. But I notice the lingering flush on her cheeks, the slight swell of her lips from our kisses, the relaxed set of her shoulders that wasn’t there before.
“We should probably actually study now,” she says, her voice returning to its usual practical tone. “The final—”
“Isn’t going to pass itself,” I finish for her, smiling at her predictability. “I know.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s affection in the gesture. “Some of us care about more than just hockey, you know.”
“I care about a lot of things,” I say, catching her wrist as she moves to sit down. I press a kiss to the faint mark left by the lace, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. “Including the final. But I care about this too.”
The simple admission—that this thing between us matters, that she matters—seems to catch her off guard. Her expression softens, analytical precision giving way to something warmer, more vulnerable.
“Me too,” she says quietly.
It’s not some big declaration. It’s not even a label for whatever we’re doing. But somehow, in this moment, it feels like enough—this acknowledgment that what we’re building together has value, has meaning beyond physical release.
As we settle back into our chairs, returning to the mechanics problem that started this whole encounter, I findmyself watching her—the focused set of her brow, the precise movements of her hand as she corrects my work, the way she unconsciously touches her wrist where the lace left its mark.
Seven days without touching her was torture.
But this—watching her explain integration problems as if she wasn’t just spread out on the table beneath me, knowing the marks of my laces are still fresh on her skin beneath her sweater—this feels like a different kind of exquisite torture.
One I’d happily endure for another seven days, if it led to moments like this.
But preferably not seven days. I don’t think either of us could handle that again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Unexpected Encounters
Nora
“We should probably get going,” I say, slipping my last notebook into my bag. “You have to meet the team in thirty minutes.”
Dean nods, gathering his own materials with calculated efficiency. “What about you? Where are you headed next?”
“Cognitive neuroscience in Harwell.” I smooth my sweater, hyperaware of how I must look—cheeks still flushed, lips slightly swollen, hair not quite as neat as it was an hour ago. I catch my reflection in the dark screen of my phone and quickly look away.
The evidence of what just happened is written all over my face.
My wrists still tingle where the hockey laces bound them, a ghost sensation I can’t seem to shake. If I close my eyes, I can still feel Dean’s hands in my hair, guiding me, his voice rough with desire as he praised me. The memory alone sends a shiver through me.
“Ready?” he asks, holding the door for me.
I nod, slinging my bag over my shoulder and stepping out first. One last glance around the study room to ensure we haven’t forgotten anything—or left evidence of activities definitely not in the student handbook.
The hockey laces are now tucked safely in Dean’s bag. No trace remains of what transpired on that table, except perhaps the slightly disturbed arrangement of chairs and the lingering pheromones in the air.
Just as Dean steps out behind me, closing the door with a soft click, voices echo down the otherwise empty hallway.
“There he is! Told you he’d be in one of these study rooms.”
I freeze, recognizing Gavin’s voice immediately. Dean tenses beside me, his hand briefly touching the small of my back before dropping away—a protective gesture cut short by the approaching audience.
Gavin rounds the corner, followed by another player I vaguely recognize—tall, with tousled brown hair and the kind of symmetrical features that would look at home on a magazine cover. Henry something. I’ve seen him at games, noticed the way other girls watch him. He’s objectively gorgeous in that effortless way that usually comes with an ego to match.
“Carter!” Gavin calls, his eyes flicking between us with poorly concealed interest. “Coach sent us to find you. Team meeting got moved up.”
“I was heading there now,” Dean says, his voice neutral, betraying nothing of what just happened minutes ago.
