Page 69 of The Equation of Us

“Oh my god,” I whisper, straightening my skirt with trembling hands. “Oh my god.”

Dean tucks himself away, zipping his jeans with annoying composure. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” I hiss, panic making my voice high. “Gavin just caught me—about to—under the table! In the library!”

“He won’t say anything.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” I demand, gathering my scattered study materials with jerky movements. “Your teammate just walked in on us!”

Dean catches my wrist, stilling my frantic motions. “Nora. Look at me.”

I force myself to meet his eyes, expecting to find the same mortification I feel. Instead, I see calm certainty.

“Gavin won’t say anything,” he repeats. “He’s known something was going on for weeks.”

“What?” I stare at him. “How?”

“Because he’s not blind.” Dean’s thumb strokes my pulse point. “He’s noticed how I look at you. How I’ve been turning down team gatherings to ‘study.’”

“So he knew? Before this?”

“He suspected. Now he knows.” Dean shrugs, the gesture casual but his eyes still intense on mine. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything!” I pull my hand away, resuming my frantic packing. “Someone knows, Dean. Someone has actually seen us. This isn’t—this isn’t what we agreed to.”

He watches me, head tilted slightly. “Are you embarrassed that someone knows? Or scared?”

The question cuts through my panic, forcing me to confront the real source of my anxiety. “Both,” I admit. “If Gavin knows, others might find out. Daphne might find out.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me! She’s my friend!”

Dean stands, moving around the table to face me directly. “So what do you want to do? End this? Go back to just tutoring?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with more significance than it should have. What do I want? The safe, controlled life I had before Dean? Or this messy, complicated, exhilarating thing we’ve created together?

Before I can answer, the door opens again. This time, it’s Professor Wexler, his eyebrows rising in surprise when he sees us.

“Nora! Thought I might find you here.” He glances at Dean, then back to me. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” I say quickly, my voice unnaturally high. “Just finishing up a tutoring session.”

“Excellent. I wanted to discuss your latest data set. The oxytocin binding results came in, and I have some questions about your methodology.”

I nod, trying to look normal while acutely aware of how I must appear—flushed, disheveled, panties askew under my skirt. “Of course.”

Wexler settles into a chair, spreading papers across the table, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. Dean catches my eye.

“I should go,” he says. “I have class in fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” I say, relief and disappointment warring inside me. “We can continue this… tutoring session later?”

Something flickers in his eyes—heat, promise, a hint of that dominant intensity that never fails to make my breath catch. “Definitely. Text me when you’re done here.”

As he leaves, nodding respectfully to Wexler, I sink into my chair, trying to focus on my professor’s questions about binding proteins and receptor sites. But all I can think about is Dean’s parting look, Gavin’s knowing laughter, and the growing certainty that our carefully contained arrangement is spinning rapidly out of control.

And the most frightening part?

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