Page 87 of The Equation of Us
The deadline in two weeks.
Dean listens without interrupting, his expression unreadable. When I finish, he simply nods.
“You’re worried we’ll be competing,” he says. Not a question.
“Will we be?”
“Probably. Whitman’s been pushing me to apply since last semester.”
I watch his face carefully. “And that doesn’t bother you? That one of us could cost the other this opportunity?”
Dean moves closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Nora, if you win, I’ll be happy for you.”
“But it’s important to you,” I protest. “Jesse, the prosthetics—this isn’t just about your career.”
“And if I win, will you resent me for it?”
The question catches me off guard. “No. I’d be disappointed, but… proud of you.”
Sad, but also happy.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. It feels like a conflict of interest. If anyone found out about us—”
“They won’t.”
“But if they did—”
“Nora.” He takes my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I’m going to apply. You’re going to apply. The best candidate will get it. End of story.”
His certainty calms the anxiety that’s been churning in my stomach all day. “That simple, huh?”
“That simple.” He smiles slightly. “Besides, do you really think I’d want to win because you withdrew? Or that you’d feel good about winning if I did?”
“No.”
“Then may the best scientist win.” His thumbs trace gentle circles on my cheeks. “And tonight, can we just be us? Not competitors. Not tutor and student. Just Dean and Nora.”
Relief washes through me. I nod, the tension I’ve been carrying all day finally releasing. “Just us.”
His phone buzzes on the counter. Daphne’s name flashes on the screen.
Dean gives it a quick glance but makes no move to answer it.
“Just us,” he repeats, lowering his mouth to mine.
The kiss starts gentle but quickly deepens, weeks of growing comfort with each other’s bodies making us bold. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back as he explores my mouth with deliberate thoroughness.
His tongue is magic.
I press closer, my own hands finding the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath to feel the warm skin and hard muscle beneath. He makes a low sound in his throat at the contact.
His phone buzzes again. Daphne’s name appears once more.
Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to reach over and silence his phone, turning it face down without a word.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs against my lips. Not a question.
