I chuckle but also give in and look at the rest of her. My cock flexes against her arm.

“Yeah, Rachel. Because you’re naked.”

19/

rachel

Logan woke up early to study more before his test. Since I really do have some catching up to do in the lab now, I spent extra hours working on my hypothesis. It’s morphed into something fairly unique, and I’m excited to tell Logan more about it. He was really the spark for my final idea.

I’m adding to research on pheromones. What started as a search for a real love potion has morphed into how pheromones are used to communicate, with the question being whether certain human scents carry messages. My work is really a cross-over study into psychology, so I’ve had to shore up a lot of my research on that end. I was able to conduct a video chat interview with a psychologist in London famous for this research. My morning has been so busy I don’t realize it's nearly time for Logan’s class to let out.

I clean up my station and pull my satchel together, and I’m tucking away my research when I notice Dr. Callahan’s card. Leaning into my workspace, I turn it over in my hand a few times, not sure whether I want to throw it away or drop it back into my bag to deal with later. I was so put off by her insolence at the dinner party that I’m no longer in awe of her work. I’ve always had a hard time when people I respect behave badly. My opinion is easily swayed against people. It’s so much harder to earn my favor.

My phone buzzes in my bag, so I drop the card in and trade it out to check my phone.

LOGAN: Library. STAT

Oh, no. I hope he did all right. I told him to request a re-test if he wasn’t satisfied with the first score. It’s not something many students take advantage of, but all Chem 101 courses offer one re-test. I know it’s in the syllabus because I put it there.

I tug my bag up my arm and tell him I’m on my way. I make it to the hallway when I hear my name called from an office a few doors down.

“Yes?” I respond, backtracking a few steps and craning my neck to attempt to see who is in the adjunct office. Dr. Combs steps out and startles me.

“Sorry,” he says, his serious face attempting to form what I think is a smile. And is that . . . is he laughing?

“Boo!” he adds on.

“Uh, yeah. You got me,” I say, moving into the office where he and one of the biology fellows seem to have uncorked some pretty expensive-looking brandy.

“Oh, I see,” I chuckle.

“Shh,” my professor blubbers. He’s toasty, and his very pretty companion isn’t doing much better.

“I wouldn’t say a word,” I say, holding my finger to my mouth as a promise to keep his secret. It’s actually nice to see this human side to him.

“I heard you in your lab, and I wanted to make sure you got this while you still had time to respond.” He moves to the leather sofa and slides his coat out of the way to unveil a light purple envelope. I get dizzy at the sight of it but manage to keep my feet under me.

“I didn’t apply,” I say, taking the envelope in my hand as I lean my weight against the wall of this suddenly small-feeling office.

“Well someone applied for you,” he says, his words a bit loopy.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, holding the envelope up to the light.

“Oh, go on. Open it!” He moves to sit on the desk, uncapping the brandy to pour more into his tumbler. I feel like maybe he’s had enough. But also, he is in his fifties and what the fuck do I know.

“Oh, the abroad program is wonderful!” his companion says, in a thick South African accent. I might be attracted to her at this point.

“That’s where we met, silly,” Dr. Combs says, holding his glass up to toast her. The two of them are quiet for a beat then burst into laughter.

Now that I’m the only person in the room to not have attended the abroad program, I thank him for giving me the letter and bow out of the office with my shrinking and frail ego. My heart is racing as I slide down the hallway, the weight of this letter like a solid gold knife heavy and cutting my hand. I clutch it, crinkling it as I pick up my pace and finally slip into the library doors where Logan is waiting for me at our usual study table.

“Well, I didn’t fail,” he says, stepping up and presenting a test with a seventy-two written on top.

“Oh, that’s—” I slump into the closest chair and drop my hands to the table, resting my forehead on my arm. “That’s amazing, Logan.”

“Rachel, are you okay? What’s wrong!” He’s at my side, kneeling, which is nice because if I lift my head right now the world will tilt. I’m hyperventilating. Panic attacks. I haven’t had one since, well, since the last purple envelope showed up in my life.

I slide it toward him from under my hand and he stands, reading it.