Page 20 of The Equation of Us

Nora looks different outside of class. More relaxed, maybe. Her hair is down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She’s wearing a loose gray sweater, leggings, and wool socks. No shoes. It’s such a small thing, but it catches me off guard—seeing her in comfortable clothes, slightly rumpled, like she’s been curled up studying for hours.

“Hey,” she says, holding the elevator door. “Come on up.”

I follow her inside, suddenly aware of how much space I take up in the small elevator. We stand on opposite sides, an arm’s length between us. I can smell her shampoo—something clean and herbal.

“Sadie’s at her sister’s for the night,” she says as the elevator starts moving. “So we don’t have to worry about distractions.”

My brain unhelpfully fixates on “for the night,” as if there’s any universe where that matters. I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Great.”

We reach the third floor, and I follow her down the narrow hallway. Her dorm room is at the end—342, just like she said. She unlocks the door and steps inside, gesturing for me to follow.

The room is small, as expected, but surprisingly neat. Bunk beds on one wall, desks on the other, a narrow strip of floor between them. String lights cast a soft glow over everything. One side—presumably Sadie’s—is decorated with photos, concert tickets, and what looks like a pride flag. The other side is more minimal: carefully organized books, a small plant, and a clean cork board with color-coded notes.

“You can sit wherever,” Nora says, closing the door behind us. “Desk chair, floor, my bed—whatever

works.”She says it casually, but something tightens in my chest at the mention of her bed.

I think about pushing her down onto it.

I think about the fact that I have a condom in my wallet.

Fucking focus, Dean.I’m not going to need a condom.

I opt for the desk chair, pulling it out slightly. “This is fine.”

She nods and sits cross-legged on her bed, pulling her laptop onto her knees. “I’ve been working on the methodology section. Did you get my email?”

“Yeah, I read it.” I unzip my backpack, retrieving my own laptop. “I added some notes on physiological markers we could track.”

For the first ten minutes, it’s easy. We fall into the familiar rhythm of academic discussion—clean, professional, focused. But then she leans forward to look at something on my screen, and her hair brushes my arm. I catch the faint scent of something floral, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of how close we are. Of the fact that we’re alone in her bedroom. Of how her bed is right there.

My balls feel heavy.

I clear my throat. “So for the experimental design, I was thinking we could use a competitive task that feels high-stakes but is actually controlled for difficulty.”

“Like what?” she asks, looking up from her notes.

“Maybe a timed puzzle task, but we manipulate the feedback. Tell half the participants they’re performing poorly compared to others, even if they’re not.”

She tilts her head, considering. “That could work. We’d need to be careful about the debrief, though. Make sure no one leaves feeling like they failed.”

“We could frame it as measuring different types of problem-solving approaches, not success rates,” I suggest. “That way, there’s no ‘wrong’ way to do it.”

Nora nods, a small smile touching her lips. “I like that. Careful but effective.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, we just look at each other. I’m struck again by how different she seems in this setting—less guarded, more at ease. Her lips are slightly parted. Her hair is loose and wavy.

“How did you get interested in prosthetics?” she asks suddenly. “I mean, beyond what you told me about your friend.”

The question catches me off guard. Most people don’t ask for details. They hear “tragic backstory” and politely back away.

“After Jesse’s accident,” I say, keeping my voice even, “I spent a lot of time at the rehab center with him. I watched him struggle with the prosthetic they gave him. It was… basic. Functional, but not designed for someone who used to be an athlete.”

I pause, not sure how much to share. Nora waits, her expression open, interested. Not pitying.

“He couldn’t play hockey anymore,” I continue. “But that wasn’t just about losing the sport. It was about losing his identity. Who he was. The prosthetics available were designed for walking, standing, sitting. Not for quick lateral movements, not for balance on ice, not for anything that felt likehim.”

I realize I’m gripping the edge of the desk and consciously relax my hand. “I thought—if the technology was better, more responsive, more adapted to different activities—maybe it wouldn’t feel like such a complete loss.”

---