Page 116 of The Equation of Us

Dean’s hand tightens slightly on my waist. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Well.” She glances back at her date, who’s watching with curious interest. “I should get back to Michael. But maybe… coffee sometime? When things feel less weird?”

“I’d like that,” I say, meaning it.

She nods, hesitates like she might say more, then offers a small smile before walking away.

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “That wasn’t as bad as I feared.”

“Told you.” Dean’s thumb traces small circles against my back. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I look up at him, struck by how steady he is, how certain. “Better than okay, actually.”

His smile warms me to my core. “Want to get out of here?”

“What about the rest of the exhibition? There’s still the neural imaging section we haven’t seen.”

Dean leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “It’ll be here tomorrow. Right now, I’d rather take you home.”

The simple statement sends heat spiraling through me. “Home?”

“My apartment,” he clarifies, though something in his expression suggests the distinction is becoming less important. “Unless you’d rather stay?”

It takes me only half a second to reach my conclusion.

“Take me home,” I say.

As we make our way toward the exit, his hand firmly in mine, I’m struck by how natural this feels—being with Dean publicly, not hiding, not calculating, just existing together in the same space.

The equation of us, balanced at last.

Not through careful manipulation of variables or controlled conditions, but through the simple truth we’ve both finally accepted: some elements just belong together, regardless of external factors.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Controlled Reactions

Nora

The ride back to Dean’s apartment passes in a haze of anticipation, his hand resting on my knee in the rideshare, thumb tracing small circles that send shivers up my spine. We maintain a careful distance—nothing inappropriate, nothing that would make the driver uncomfortable—but the tension between us is almost tangible, electric.

By the time we reach his door, my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the three flights of stairs we’ve just climbed.

Dean unlocks the door with steady hands, always controlled, even now. But when it closes behind us, something shifts in his expression—the careful restraint giving way to something hungrier, more intense.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that never fails to make my skin flush. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted to touch you at that gala?”

“You were touching me,” I point out, remembering his hand at the small of my back, on my waist, fingers linked with mine.

“Not the way I wanted to.” He steps closer, until I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “Not like this.”

His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is different from our others—deeper, more possessive, with an edge of desperation I haven’t felt from him before. Like he’s been holding back all evening and can finally let go.

I respond instantly, arms winding around his neck, pressing closer. His other hand finds my waist, then slides lower, bunching the fabric of my borrowed dress as he lifts me.

I wrap my legs around him instinctively, gasping against his mouth as he carries me toward the bedroom.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs against my neck. “You in that dress. You talking about neural pathways with that focused expression. You standing next to my work like you belong there.”

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