Page 76 of The Equation of Us

Sadie laughs. “Cute. But seriously, I do need to finish this paper, and the lighting is better in the lounge. Just don’t have sex in my bed, okay?”

“Sadie!” I protest, heat flooding my face.

She grins, unrepentant, as she heads for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Enjoy your ice cream!”

The door closes behind her, leaving Dean and me alone in the suddenly quiet room.

“Sorry about her,” I say, still embarrassed.

“Don’t be.” He kicks off his shoes and settles more comfortably beside me on the narrow bed. “I like that you have someone looking out for you.”

I shift to make room for him, wincing slightly as another cramp twists through me. Dean notices immediately.

“Bad?” he asks, his hand moving to my lower back, rubbing gently.

“Medium,” I admit. “The first day is always the worst.”

He continues the gentle massage, his large hand warm through my T-shirt. The slight pressure eases the ache, and I find myself relaxing against him.

“Better?” he asks after a few minutes.

“Mmm,” I murmur, too comfortable to form words. His touch is soothing rather than sexual, caring rather than controlling. It’s a new side of Dean—one I’m still getting used to.

I like it way more than I should.

“Good.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Now, how about that ice cream?”

I smile up at him, suddenly overwhelmed with affection for this man who showed up at my door with chocolate andpainkillers just because I had cramps. Who’s now holding me like I’m something precious, asking nothing in return.

“Dean?” I say quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you came over.”

He smiles, that rare, genuine expression that always catches me off guard. “Me too.”

We don’t talk about Daphne’s sweater or the larger issue of coming clean to her. We don’t discuss the implications of Dean’s appearance at my door with period supplies. We don’t analyze what it means that he’s content to just hold me while I’m crampy and decidedly unsexy.

Instead, we eat ice cream straight from the container, watch bad reality TV on my laptop, and exist in a bubble of comfortable intimacy that feels dangerously close to something I’m not ready to name.

But as Dean’s arms tighten around me, his chest warm against my back, I realize that maybe names don’t matter. Maybe what matters is this—the feeling of safety, of being seen and accepted exactly as I am.

Maybe what matters is that for the first time in my life, I’m not calculating risks or weighing consequences or planning ten steps ahead.

I’m just being. And it feels like enough.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Breaking Point

Dean

Seven days.

Seven days of seeing Nora in tutoring sessions, in class, across the quad—and not being able to touch her the way I want to. Seven days of watching her tuck that strand of hair behind her ear, of seeing her bite her lower lip when she’s concentrating, of catching glimpses of her neck when she tilts her head just so.

Seven days of torture.

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