Page 65 of Boiling Point
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only theoretically. Unless you’ve secretly designed a vessel that can approach the speed of light and dilate time.”
“Not yet.” I gave him a sidelong look. “I guess I’ll have to finish my engineering degree first.”
He turned toward me, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “That means you’ll need to pass my course.”
“That sounds like extortion.”
“That sounds like the curriculum.” He lifted his mug, eyes never leaving mine.
I stared at him, pulse fluttering. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Terribly.” He took a slow sip of tea, then set the cup down. “But I’m afraid there’s no stopping Monday morning from arriving.”
Cal’s words hung in the stillness between us:There’s no stopping Monday morning from arriving.
“I know,” I said quietly, fingers tightening around the mug. I set it down with care, then let my hands fall to my lap, suddenly unsure what to do with them.
I wasn’t ready to go. Not even close.
“I just…” I hesitated. “I don’t want to go back to real life yet. To being just another student in your eight o’clock physics class. To pretending you’re not the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
He turned fully toward me, one arm sliding along the back of the sofa until his fingertips brushed my shoulder. “Then don’t,” he said. “Not here. Not with me.”
I looked up at him, studying the way he was watching me. It made everything inside me tilt. Warm. Steady. Unshakable. Like he already knew what I meant, even if I hadn’t said it yet.
“I know this isn’t…simple,” I said, my voice thready. “I know what we’re risking.”
His fingers brushed a slow path along my shoulder. “It was never going to be simple.”
“But it’s real,” I said, my eyes locked on his. “Isn’t it?”
His lips parted like he might answer—but no words came. He just took my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist.
Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”
My breath caught in my throat. The moment expanded around us, stretched thin by everything we wanted and everything we couldn’t have. Not here. Not yet.
Cal exhaled slowly, thumb still tracing along my skin. “I should probably take you home at some point.”
I didn’t move. “Not yet,” I said.
He smiled—soft and crooked and so full of ache it knocked the air out of me. “No,” he agreed, pulling me into his arms. “Not yet.”
My apartment felt smaller than I remembered. I set my bags on the floor and stood in the middle of the living room, listening to the muted hum of traffic through the closed windows. The plaid couch stared back with dull familiarity, and even the bright vintage aviation prints on the wall seemed to accuse me of abandoning ship.
Cal’s car had barely left the parking lot before regret followed me inside, coiling tight around my chest and refusing to let go. Not regret for the stolen weekend. Regret that it had to end.
I sank onto the couch, its worn cushions swallowing me whole. The silence, heavy and suffocating, pressed in from all sides. Normally I loved being alone, loved the lack of expectation and noise. But now? Now all I wanted was his voice curling close to my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
A sudden pulse startled me back into the present as my phone vibrated where it lay forgotten in my purse. I fumbled for it, almost hoping to see his name on the screen.
No such luck.
Aunt Suzy. Eleven missed calls, four voicemails, and a cascade of increasingly frantic texts. A knot formed in my stomach as I scrolled, each message a small explosion of guilt:Where are you? Why aren’t you answering? Did you get my other texts? Call me!
I took a deep breath, braced myself for impact, and called her back.
She picked up on the first ring. “Gabrielle! Oh, thank God! I was about to call the police!”
