Page 47 of Unbound
Diana closed her laptop with a soft click. "You know what I think? I think you're both right and both wrong. Adrian, your methods might be questionable and your motivations are mixed. But you're not wrong that Jesse needs help. That boy is drowning."
"The question is: can you throw him a lifeline without pulling him under yourself?" she continued, looking at me directly.
The weight of her words settled over the room like a blanket. Outside, I could hear the normal sounds of campus life—students walking home from late study sessions, cars passing, someone playing music too loudly. Normal people living normal lives, making normal choices.
"We're meeting again Wednesday," I said finally. "Same time, same place."
"And what's your plan?" Elijah asked.
"Keep doing what we're doing. Let him continue questioning and exploring at his own pace. Hope that maybe, eventually, he'll be ready for something more."
Wednesday night arrived with the kind of nervous energy that made it impossible to concentrate on anything else. I showed up at the library early again, claiming our table and spreading out materials with the same careful precision as before.
Jesse arrived exactly on time, but something had shifted since Monday. He moved with more confidence, less of that careful tension that suggested he was ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. And when he sat down, he pulled his chair slightly closer to the table—closer to me.
"I've been thinking about what we discussed," he said without preamble, pulling out his legal pad. "About the distinction between religious and civil marriage. I have more questions."
For the next two hours, we dove deeper into constitutional doctrine. Jesse's questions were sharper now, more sophisticated. He challenged my explanations when something didn't make sense, offered his own interpretations of legal precedents, built arguments that impressed me with their analytical rigour.
"Lawrence v. Texas," he said, flipping through his notes. "The Court says that moral disapproval alone can't justify legislation restricting personal autonomy. But isn't all law based on moral judgments? We criminalize murder because we believe it's morally wrong."
"That's the fundamental tension in constitutional law," I replied, pulled into the intellectual debate despite myself. "The line between legitimate government interests and impermissible moral legislation."
As I walked him through levels of constitutional scrutiny, I found myself hopelessly distracted—not by the legal doctrine, but byhim. The way his brow furrowed in concentration, the subtle parting of his lips when a concept finally clicked into place. There was something intoxicating about watching Jesse’s mind work, the way he’d lean forward unconsciously, elbows braced against the table like he was physically willing himself to understand. His fingers tapped restlessly against his legal pad, leaving faint smudges of ink where his pen had hovered mid-thought.
Then it happened again—that charged moment of contact. He reached across to point out a passage in my notes, and our shoulders brushed. A simple, accidental touch, but it sent a jolt through me, sharp as the first time. My skin burned where we’d connected, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Jesse froze. I couldfeelthe tension ratchet through his body—muscles locking, breath catching. His scent—something clean and subtly sweet, like soap and the crisp pages of a new book—wrapped around me. When he finally pulled back, it was too slow to be casual, too deliberate to be an accident.
But not before I noticed:
The pink flush creeping up his neck.
The way his throat worked as he swallowed.
The tremor in his fingers when he picked up his pen again.
He was flustered.Affected.Byme.
“So the question isn’t whether same-sex marriage is morally right or wrong,” he said, voice unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with constitutional theory. His gaze flicked to mine, then away, lingering on my mouth for a fraction of a second too long. “It’s whether there’s a constitutional justification for government interference with personal choices about marriage.”
Christ, hisvoice.Low and careful, like he was measuring every word, but with this undercurrent of—something. Something raw. Something that made my pulse kick harder.
I should’ve been focusing on his argument. Instead, I was memorizing the shape of his lips as they formed each syllable, the fleeting glimpse of his tongue when he paused to wet them. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was fighting the same dizzying awareness I was.
“Now you’re thinking like a constitutional lawyer,” I managed, forcing my attention back to his words instead of the heat pooling low in my stomach.
And then—hesmiled.Not the tight, practised expression I’d seen before, but something real. Unfiltered. It transformed his entire face, softening the careful control he usually wore like armour. His eyes crinkled at the corners, bright with a quiet triumph, and for the first time, I caught a glimpse of who Jesse might be without the weight of expectation crushing him.
Younger. Lighter.Beautiful.
My chest ached with the sudden, desperate need to knowthatJesse—the one who laughed without hesitation, who reached for what he wanted without guilt, who might one day look at me like I was something worth reaching for, too.
Friday night, Jesse showed up with coffee for both of us—black with two sugars for me, which meant he'd been paying attention to details I hadn't realized I'd shared. The gesture felt monumentally significant, like a small bridge built across the careful distance he maintained between us.
"I've been working on the equal protection analysis," he said, settling across from me with newfound ease.
As we worked through the material, the distance between us kept collapsing in ways that short-circuited my ability to focus. Jesse had developed a habit of leaning into my space whenever concentration narrowed his focus, his temple inches from mine as we both stared at the same highlighted passage. The scent of his shampoo—something crisp and woodsy, wholly at odds with the over-starched propriety of his button-down collar—made my throat go dry.
