Page 72 of Boiling Point
“That’s a good start,” Cal said, nodding toward him. “Now—can anyone tell me why it’s a bad idea to heat water in the microwave?” Another glance my way. “Say, in an attempt to make tea.”
I sank down in my seat, burning and breathless, and hated how much I loved him for it.
So…calling me out in front of the entire class? Bold move, Dr. Hawthorne.
I did no such thing. But at least you won’t be microwaving water again, Miss Clark.
I smiled, grateful that I was alone and no longer had to school my expressions. My phone buzzed again.
How was calculus?
My pulse skipped.
Numbing, but I made it through. Now I’m studying. Or pretending to.
Psych at 1?
Good memory.
I’m known for that, love. Where are you?
I glanced around at the chaotic array of tables, chairs, crates, and furniture covered in tarps. Beneath the Page College chapel lay the remnants of a Cold War-era fallout shelter. Now used mostly for storage and accessible only to those who knew how to find it, it was my study spot of choice.
Secluded study spot. Hardly anyone knows it’s here. I’m all alone…
A secret lair… Should I be concerned or intrigued?
I hovered over the screen, thumb ghosting the keyboard. It was reckless. A terrible idea. But I typed it anyway.
If you’re free…you could join me…
I swallowed hard and hit send.
His reply came faster than I expected.
You’re dangerously persuasive when you shouldn’t be. Send me a pin. I’m already walking.
I left my things and made my way upstairs to meet him. The cramped storage room behind the chapel was overrun and chaotic—an echo of the shelter below. I wondered if this was too reckless. If he’d turn back once he saw my pin drop.
But a moment later, the door creaked open, and there he was.
Longing spiked through me. He shut the door quietly, his gaze sweeping the room—then locking with mine, burning through every restraint I’d tried to build.
“Covert enough for you?” I asked, voice low as I stepped toward him. Close enough to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes at my audacity. Close enough for my breath to catch at his nearness.
“The chapel? I’d say sacrilegious, not covert,” Cal mused, still watching me in that way that made everything else go dim.
We both glanced at the door, as if expecting someone to burst through. But there were no footsteps. No voices nearby. Just dust motes drifting through shafts of light from high windows.
“No, not the chapel. I’m not insane.” I reached for his hand and felt him hesitate, tugged by propriety. “Under the chapel. The old fallout shelter.”
His posture eased, and he let me lead him down into the stairwell, into the hush and shadows where nothing else mattered but this. The door clanged shut above us. With each step, we left the world behind—one that demanded restraint and reason.
“I thought this place was a myth,” he whispered.
“Nope. It was built during the Cold War in case of a nuclear strike. I’ve heard there are three more around campus, maybe even tunnels, but they might be sealed off.”
He tightened his hand around mine—warm and solid, everything I needed it to be. The space opened around us, vast and abandoned. My heart kept a wild rhythm as we reached the bottom landing.
