Page 42 of The Equation of Us

Nora

“…which is why the oxytocin receptors in the ventral striatum might provide a new avenue for exploring addiction pathways.”

Professor Wexler pauses, looking at me expectantly. I blink, realizing he’s waiting for a response to something I completely missed. My notebook is open in front of me, pen poised over the page, but the last note I wrote was ten minutes ago.

“That’s… fascinating,” I offer lamely.

Wexler’s bushy eyebrows draw together. “You think my concern about the sample size being too small is ‘fascinating’?”

Shit.

“No, sorry,” I straighten in my chair. “I meant that I agree it’s a potential issue. Maybe we could run a preliminary analysis on the existing data before deciding if we need more participants?”

He studies me for a moment, then nods slowly. “That’s reasonable. Are you feeling alright, Nora? You seem distracted today.”

That’s because Iamdistracted. Because beneath my professional button-down and sensible slacks, I’m wearing the matching black lace set I ordered online after my last… session with Dean. Because I spent an extra twenty minutes in the shower this morning, shaving everything with a precision thatwould impress a surgeon. Because in exactly four hours and twenty-three minutes, I’ll be at Dean’s apartment, and all I can think about is what might happen there.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a little sleep-deprived. Working on that biopsych project with Dean Carter is taking more time than I expected.”

It’s not entirely untrue. I am spending a lot of time with Dean. Just not all of it on the project.

“Ah, yes. Carter.” Wexler’s expression shifts to something like approval. “Brilliant young man. Whitman speaks very highly of him. How’s the collaboration going?”

He pumped his cock into my mouth and watched me the entire time, his hand in my hair.

“Productive,” I say, my voice only slightly strained. “We’re making good progress.”

“Excellent.” Wexler turns back to his computer screen. “Now, about these data points…”

I force myself to focus for the remainder of our meeting, taking careful notes and asking appropriate questions. But underneath my scholarly facade, my mind keeps drifting to Dean. To the way his eyes darken when he tells me what to do. To the feeling of his hands, strong and sure, guiding my body where he wants it. To the surprising tenderness afterward, when he traces patterns on my skin and asks me what I’m thinking.

By the time I leave Wexler’s office forty minutes later, I feel like I’m vibrating with anticipation. I check my phone—three hours until I’m supposed to be at Dean’s. Too much time to go straight there, not enough time to get any meaningful work done.

I head to the library anyway, finding a quiet corner to spread out my research materials. If I can’t control my thoughts, I can at least pretend to be productive.

I’ve read the same paragraph four times when my phone buzzes.

Dean: Still on for tonight?

Such a simple text shouldn’t make my heart race, but it does. I type back:

Yes. 9 pm.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I add:

Looking forward to it.

It’s more than I usually share—our texts have been deliberately impersonal, logistical only. Part of the boundaries we established. But something about today feels different. I’m restless, on edge in a way I can’t quite define.

Heat blooms in my chest, spreading upward to my face.

I put my phone down and try again to focus on my reading. The words blur before my eyes, meaningless symbols that refuse to form coherent thoughts. All I can think about is Dean. Dean’s hands. Dean’s mouth. Dean’s voice telling me exactly what he wants and how he wants it.

This is getting out of hand.

What started as curiosity—as a controlled experiment in letting go—is becoming something more complicated. Something that occupies too much space in my mind. Something that makes me check my phone too often and count down the hours until I see him again.

And then there’s Daphne. Her wistful expression when she talked about Dean the other night. The way she compared every new date to him and found them lacking. What if she does want him back? What would I do?

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