Page 58 of The Equation of Us

She nods, already moving toward the door. “Text me later.”

“Wait.” I catch her arm gently. I lean down and kiss her, brief but firm.

“Go help Daphne,” she says when I pull back.

As I watch her leave, I’m struck by the irony of the situation—rushing to help my ex-girlfriend while the woman I can’t stopthinking about walks away. But what strikes me more is Nora’s reaction—understanding, practical, without drama or demands.

I’m not sure what to make of that.

I grab my keys and head for the door.

Chapter Twenty

Hidden Parts

Nora

The coffee in my travel mug has gone cold, but I drink it anyway, grimacing at the bitter taste. I’ve been in Harvey Hall’s study alcove for three hours, my notes spread across the table in an organized chaos that makes sense only to me. The neurochemistry midterm is in two days, and I’m still not satisfied with my understanding of monoamine receptor subtypes.

My phone buzzes on the table, drawing my attention away from my color-coded flashcards.

Dean: Hey sorry about last night.

My stomach does that ridiculous little flip it always does when his name appears on my screen. I stare at the message for a moment, remembering the abrupt end to our encounter—his lips on mine, his hands under my sweater, then Daphne’s call interrupting everything. The look of conflict on his face as he told me he had to go get her.

It’sokay, I type back, because it is. I understand emergencies, and Daphne stranded alone with a dying phone qualifies as one.

Even if I hate that he’s still the person she calls.

His response comes quickly.

Dean:Where are you right now? I’d like to seeyou.

HarveyHall, I reply, my pulse quickening slightly.

Dean:Come to Woodson? Third floor.

I hesitate. Woodson is the engineering building, where Dean spends most of his time between classes. I’ve never been there before. Going feels like crossing another boundary—moving from private spaces to professional ones, blending the parts of our lives we’ve kept carefully separate.

Me:Okay.

Before I can overthink it, I gather my notes, packing them neatly into my bag. I check my reflection in my phone camera—minimal makeup, hair pulled back in its usual practical ponytail, a simple gray sweater over jeans. Not exactly dressed to impress, but it will have to do.

The walk to Woodson Hall takes me across the main quad, past students lounging on the grass despite the lingering chill in the air. Spring is trying to assert itself, the first daffodils pushing through the soil near the library steps. The engineering building stands at the northwest corner of campus, all glass and steel, a stark contrast to the ivy-covered brick of my usual academic haunts.

Inside, the lobby bustles with activity—students hunched over laptops, professors engaged in animated discussions, display cases showing off various engineering projects and achievements. I follow signs to the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor with a strange flutter of nervousness.

The doors open onto a quieter hallway, lined with laboratories and research spaces. I check my phone again, realizing Dean didn’t specify where to meet him.

Me: I’m on the third floor. Where are you?

Dean:Lab 312. End of the hall. Door’s propped open.

I find it easily, a heavy metal door held ajar with a rubber doorstop. I hesitate for a moment before pushing it open and stepping inside.

The lab is larger than I expected, filled with workbenches, computers, and equipment I don’t recognize. Prototypes of what look like mechanical limbs are displayed on several surfaces, ranging from simple skeletal structures to more sophisticated designs with synthetic skin.

And there’s Dean, bent over a workbench at the far end of the room, completely absorbed in whatever he’s adjusting with a small tool. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and for a moment, I just watch him—the intense focus in his expression, the careful precision of his movements, the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration.

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