Page 23

"Name three ethical frameworks commonly applied to genetic testing," Ethan asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear him.

We're tucked in the corner of study room 302, surrounded by stacks of notes, empty water bottles, and the nearly tangible stress of impending finals. Four other students from our Bio Ethics class are scattered around the table—Madison and Kelly huddled over a shared textbook, whispering intently, while Jason and Parker tap away on their laptops, occasionally sharing a relevant article they've found.

I close my eyes, organizing my thoughts. "Utilitarianism, focused on maximizing overall benefits and minimizing harm. Virtue ethics, centered on the character and intentions of those administering tests. And autonomy-based ethics, which prioritizes patient choice and consent."

Ethan nods, leaning closer to check my notes. His shoulder brushes mine, and I instinctively shift away, maintaining my personal space. If he notices, he doesn't comment.

"Good," he says, flipping to the next page of his notes. "Now what about—"

The door to the study room opens, and my heart jumps to my throat.

Sanderson walks through the doorway, a coffee cup in each hand, scanning the room until his eyes find mine. He's in dark jeans replacing his usual athletic shorts, a navy button-down rolled to the elbows instead of a team t-shirt. His hair is still damp from a shower, and the bruise around his eye has faded to a yellowish shadow.

The entire room seems to pause, all eyes turning toward this unfamiliar intrusion. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how close Ethan is sitting, how my notes are mixed with his, how anyone watching might assume we're more than just study partners.

Sanderson's gaze flicks to Ethan, then back to me, his expression carefully neutral. But I've spent enough time with him now to recognize the tightness around his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes. He's not pleased.

"What's the next question?" I prompt Ethan, pretending not to notice the tension crackling in the air.

Ethan, oblivious to the undercurrents, consults his notes again. "Explain the concept of genetic determinism and its ethical implications."

Sanderson approaches silently, setting a coffee cup in front of me with deliberate care. The familiar aroma of caramel and espresso wafts up, a perfect caramel macchiato with an extra shot, exactly as I requested. Our fingers brush as I accept it, and a jolt of electricity races up my arm.

"Genetic determinism is the belief that human traits and behaviors are controlled solely by genetic factors," I begin, holding Sanderson's gaze even as I answer Ethan's question. "Ethically, it's problematic because it can lead to fatalism—the idea that our futures are predetermined by our genes, which undermines concepts of free will and personal responsibility."

Sanderson's lips quirk up slightly, impressed or amused, I can't tell which. He remains standing beside me, his presence a warm, distracting force.

"It can also lead to discrimination," I continue, somehow maintaining my train of thought despite the way my pulse is racing. "If we believe someone's worth or potential is dictated entirely by their genetic makeup, it opens the door to eugenics and other harmful practices."

"Good," Ethan says, making a note in his margin. He glances up, finally acknowledging Sanderson's presence.

"Thanks for the coffee, Sanderson," I say.

Sanderson nods once, his eyes never leaving mine. "Anytime."

There's a wealth of meaning in that single word, layers that only I understand. He gives me one last look—intense, possessive, promising—then turns and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him.

The room seems to exhale collectively once he's gone, conversations resuming, pages turning. But I remain frozen, coffee warming my palms, heart hammering in my chest.

"Who was that?" Madison asks from across the table, voicing what everyone is clearly wondering.

"A friend," I say, the word woefully inadequate. "He offered to bring coffee."

"Some friend," Kelly murmurs, eyebrows raised. "Does he bring coffee to all his 'friends,' or just the pretty ones?"

I feel heat rising in my cheeks. "Next question, Ethan?"

Ethan, still unaware of the undercurrents, launches into a complex scenario about privacy rights in genetic databases. I try to focus, to give a coherent answer, but my mind keeps drifting to Sanderson—the intensity in his eyes, the deliberate way he set down my coffee, the barely suppressed possessiveness in his stance.

My phone buzzes on the table, and I glance down at the screen.

I'll wait for you in the south parking lot. Take your time.

Not a question, not a suggestion. A statement. Normally, I'd bristle at being told what to do, at having decisions made for me without consultation. But there's something about Sanderson's quiet confidence, his assumption that I'll want to see him after my study session, that sends a thrill through me rather than irritation.

I tuck my phone away, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared coffee. For the next hour, I go through the motions of studying—answering Ethan's questions, contributing to group discussions, making notes in my already-crowded margins—but my mind is elsewhere, counting down the minutes until I can politely excuse myself.

At 7:45, Madison stretches and declares she's reached her brain capacity for the night. The group collectively begins to pack up, exchanging notes and confirming our next meeting time. I gather my books, trying not to appear rushed despite the anticipation humming through my veins.

"Want to grab dinner?" Ethan asks as we walk out of the library together. "A bunch of us are heading to the dining hall."

"Thanks, but I've got plans," I say, hoping my smile doesn't betray my eagerness to be elsewhere.

"Another time, then." He waves goodbye, jogging to catch up with the others as they head toward campus center.

I take the path to the south parking lot, my pace quickening with each step. The evening air is cool against my flushed skin, the weight of my backpack a counterbalance to the lightness in my chest.

Sanderson's car is parked under a lamppost, casting a pool of yellow light across the asphalt. He's leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed, watching me approach. When he sees me, he straightens, his entire posture shifting from casual to alert in an instant.

"Hi," I say, suddenly shy as I stop in front of him.

"Hey." His voice is low, warm. "How was studying?"

"Productive." I adjust my backpack strap, oddly nervous. "Thanks for the coffee. It was exactly what I needed."

He opens the passenger door for me. "Hungry?"

"Always," I smile, climbing in.

He closes the door and walks around to the driver's side, giving me a moment to collect myself. It's strange how quickly this has become familiar—sitting in his car, watching him slide behind the wheel, the unique scent of him filling the enclosed space.

"So," he says once we're both settled. "Chick-fil-A okay? We can go somewhere else if you'd prefer."

"Chick-fil-A sounds perfect." My stomach growls as if to emphasize the point. "I've been living on protein bars and coffee for the past two days."

He frowns slightly as he starts the engine. "That's not sustainable, you know. Even genius brains need actual meals."

"Says the guy who probably lives on protein shakes and energy bars during season."

"Touché." He pulls out of the parking lot, navigating easily through the campus streets. "But at least I mix in some actual food occasionally."

"Like Chick-fil-A?" I tease.

"Exactly. Balanced nutrition at its finest."

We fall into easy conversation as he drives, discussing classes, upcoming exams, the latest campus gossip. There's no mention of the study room, of Ethan sitting close to me, of the look in Sanderson's eyes when he saw us together. But it hangs between us.

At the drive-through, he orders without consulting me—a spicy chicken sandwich meal for himself, a regular chicken sandwich meal for me, and an extra order of waffle fries to share. I'm surprised to find I don't mind this small presumption. He's paying attention, remembering what I like.

"Back to your place?" he asks as we pull away with our food. "So, you can drop off your books."

I nod, suddenly very aware that going to my dorm means privacy, means being alone together for the first time since we were interrupted by Lennox. The thought sends a flutter through my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger.

The drive back to campus is quieter, anticipation building with each mile. When we reach my dorm, he finds a parking spot close to the entrance.

"I'll wait here," he says, but I shake my head.

"Come up. We can eat in my room."

His eyes darken slightly, but he keeps his tone light. "You sure? I wouldn't want to scandalize your floor-mates."

"They're already scandalized," I say with a small smile. "Might as well give them something to actually talk about."

We take the food and my backpack, walking side by side into the building. In the elevator, we stand closer than necessary, our arms brushing, the tension between us palpable. By the time we reach my floor, my heart is racing, and not from the four-flight elevator ride.

My room is exactly as I left it—bed neatly made, desk organized into study stations, everything in its place. Sanderson looks around with interest, taking in the details I know he didn't have time to notice during his last visit.

"Very you," he comments, setting the food on my desk.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I drop my backpack by the door and take off my jacket.

"Organized. Thoughtful." He gestures to the color-coded bookshelf, the plants arranged by size on the windowsill. "You can tell a lot about someone from their space."

"What does yours say about you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"That I'm surprisingly neat for a jock," he says with a self-deprecating smile. "And that I care more about comfort than style. My apartment is basically a couch, a TV, and a really good mattress."

The mention of his mattress sends my thoughts in a dangerous direction. I busy myself with unpacking the food, laying it out on my desk like a miniature picnic.

"So," he says, leaning against the wall as I work. "Your study buddy seemed…friendly."

And there it is. The elephant in the room, finally acknowledged.

"Ethan?" I keep my tone casual. "He's just a classmate. We've been quiz partners all semester."

"Hmm." Sanderson crosses his arms, not quite convinced. "He always sit that close to you?"

I look up, meeting his eyes directly. "Are you jealous?"

"Would it bother you if I was?"

The question hangs between us. I consider my answer carefully, wanting to be honest without giving too much away.

"No," I admit finally. "It wouldn't bother me."

A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his features from guarded to devastatingly handsome. "Good to know."

He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us in two strides. My breath catches as he reaches for me, but instead of pulling me close, he simply tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek.

"We should eat before it gets cold," he says, his voice low and rough.

I swallow hard, nodding. "Right. Food."

His laugh is soft as he pulls back, creating space between us again. "I'm trying to be a gentleman here, Porter. You're not making it easy."

"Who asked you to be a gentleman?" The words slip out before I can censor them, bold and wanting.

His eyes darken, pupils dilating. "Careful what you wish for."

The air between us feels charged, electric. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, might push aside the food and lift me onto the desk, might finish what we started before Lennox interrupted.

Instead, he hands me my sandwich, the gesture deliberately casual. "Eat. You need the energy."

"For what?" I ask, unable to help myself.

His slow smile is pure wickedness. "Studying, of course. What else would I mean?"

I take the sandwich, our fingers brushing in a contact that feels anything but accidental. "Of course. Studying."

We settle on opposite ends of my bed, the food spread between us, a safe buffer of chicken sandwiches and waffle fries.

Every time our hands brush reaching for the fries, every time our eyes meet over a shared joke, every time he leans slightly closer to make a point—the electricity between us builds, a slow-burning fuse working its way toward inevitable explosion.

"So," he says when we've finished eating, crumpling the wrappers and disposing of them neatly in my trash can. "What now?"

The question is innocent enough, but his eyes tell a different story. He's not asking about our evening plans. He's asking about us, about where we go from here, about what I want from him.

All I’ve been thinking about is him. His lips, his arms, his abs. The way he holds me, touches me, causes a fire inside my core.

I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. "Now," I say, moving the empty food containers from between us, "I think we should finish what we started earlier."

His eyebrows raise slightly, a mix of surprise and pleasure crossing his features. "Earlier today?"

"Earlier this week," I clarify, moving closer to him on the bed. "Before Lennox interrupted."

Understanding dawns, followed by a heat that makes my breath catch. "Are you sure?"

In answer, I reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him toward me. "I'm sure."

His restraint snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. In one fluid motion, he closes the distance between us, his mouth finding mine with unerring accuracy. The kiss is different from our previous ones—hungrier, more desperate, weeks of tension finally finding release.

His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones as he angles his head for better access. I melt into him, all thoughts of studying, of exams, of complicated relationships dissolving under the onslaught of sensation.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. "Hannah," he murmurs, my name a question and an answer all at once.

"Stay," I whisper, the word carrying all the weight of my decision.

His eyes search mine, looking for any sign of hesitation, of uncertainty. Finding none, he smiles—not the cocky grin I've come to expect, but something softer, more vulnerable.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

The words settle in my chest, warm and certain. I reach for him again, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt with newfound boldness. One by one, I undo them, revealing tan skin and defined muscle beneath. My breath catches as the last button gives way, and I push the fabric from his shoulders, letting it fall forgotten to the floor.

Sanderson remains perfectly still, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. This isn't like before—the frantic, desperate need that overtook us in the heat of the moment. This is deliberate, conscious choice. Every movement measured, every touch intentional.

My fingers trace his chest. A small scar near his collarbone catches my attention, and I brush my thumb across it, a silent question.

"Hockey stick," he explains, his voice husky. "Freshman year."

I lean forward, pressing my lips to the mark, as if I could erase the memory of pain with a kiss. His sharp intake of breath turns me on as I continue to learn his body in a way I hadn't had the chance to before.

His hands find my waist, steadying me as I shift closer. "Take this off," he murmurs, fingers playing with the hem of my sweater.

I nod, raising my arms as he lifts the fabric over my head. The cool air raises goosebumps across my exposed skin, but they're quickly chased away by the warmth of his palms as they slide up my sides.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispers.

We undress each other slowly. When I'm finally bare before him, I resist the urge to cover myself, to hide from the raw appreciation in his gaze.

"You're staring," I whisper, echoing our words from that first night.

"Can't help it," he says, the familiar response carrying new weight.

He lowers me onto the bed, the narrow twin mattress barely accommodating our bodies. But somehow the lack of space feels perfect—nowhere to go, nothing to do but be together, completely present in this moment.

His lips find mine again, the kiss deeper now, more certain. Then he's trailing fire down my neck, across my collarbone, each touch a revelation. I've been kissed before, touched before, but never like this—never with such focused attention, as if he's memorizing every inch of me, every sound, every response.

When his mouth closes over my breast, a gasp escapes me, my back arching instinctively. His hand splays across my stomach, steadying me, grounding me as sensation threatens to overwhelm.

"Sanderson," I breathe, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close even as I tremble beneath his touch.

He looks up, eyes meeting mine with unexpected vulnerability. "Say my name," he whispers. "My real name."

I realize with a start that I had no idea Sanderson isn’t his real name—this intimate detail somehow more personal than the physical closeness we're sharing.

"Connolly," I try, but he shakes his head slightly.

"My first name," he clarifies, and I understand that he's asking for something beyond the physical, a different kind of intimacy. "Sanderson is my middle name."

"I don't know it," I admit, embarrassed by this gap in my knowledge.

A slow smile spreads across his face, surprising and beautiful. "James," he says. "But only my mom calls me that. Everyone else calls me—"

"Sandy," I finish.

He nods, watching me carefully. "But from you…I'd like to hear my name."

"James," I whisper, testing the sound of it on my tongue.

His reaction is immediate—a shudder runs through him, his eyes darkening with emotion I can't quite name. When he kisses me again, it's deep and licking, as if hearing his name from my lips has broken some final barrier between us.

His hands and mouth continue their way across my body, discovering all the places I never knew could bring such pleasure. My hands learn the landscape of his back, his shoulders, the strength of his arms as they support his weight above me.

This is nothing like our first time together, that night of confusion and mistaken identity. That was an accident, a joke of timing and darkness. This is a choice, a deliberate coming together of two people who have seen the worst of each other and chose connection anyway.

And it's nothing like I imagined it would be with Cade, either. The thought flits across my mind and is gone just as quickly, irrelevant to the present moment, to the man currently trailing kisses down my stomach with such tender focus.

When his mouth moves lower, I gasp, fingers clutching the sheets as pleasure builds and crests, his name—his real name—falling from my lips like a prayer. He works his tongue causing my body to shake. I lean up, grabbing his hair. His eyes meet, sending jolts through my body. That look in his eyes tells me so much. He licks me so good that I fall back onto the pillow and start saying his name––his real name. It doesn’t take long for me to orgasm, finding such a high peak under his tongue that I cover my face with the pillow to stop my begging and pleading. His mouth doesn’t stop, through the aftershocks. He gently kisses against my inner thigh, my hip, making his way back up my body until we're face to face again.

The wonder in his expression catches me off guard. This isn't the confident hockey star, the campus playboy with a different girl every weekend. This is someone else entirely—someone vulnerable, someone who cares…about me.

"You okay?" he asks, brushing hair from my face with a gentleness that makes my heart ache.

"More than okay," I manage, still catching my breath. "That was…"

"I want to kiss you, but I don’t want you to be grossed out. So––" he says, looking around the room.

"My mouth wash is right here," I lean up to grab it. We both take a swish of it and watch each other gargle.

He brings over his cup from the drive-through and offers for me to spit in it first. I take it, spit, and then hand it back. He spits in it and places it on my dresser.

"Now, where were we?" he asks, kissing me. He tastes refreshing, so I kiss him deeper, pulling him on me.

I reach between us, fingers wrapping around him, gratified by his sharp intake of breath, the momentary loss of control in his expression.

"I want you," I whisper, working my hand on his dick.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "We don’t have to."

"You don’t want to?" I ask, confused.

He kisses me. "Trust me, I do."

I reach over and grab the condoms I bought for me and Cade. Shit, I push that thought out of my head as I grab one and open it.

"Then it’s settled."

He leans up and lets me roll the condom onto him. When I look up, his eyes are watching me.

"There," I mutter.

He kisses me with his tongue, and then his teeth pull my bottom lip. "I love your bottom lip, Han." He pulls back and puts his thumb in my mouth. It’s unexpected and hot as hell. "It’s so sexy. All I want to do is kiss it." He kisses me and then says, "Are you ready?"

In answer, I pull him down to me and edge my hips up. I can feel how hard he is against me, and the size of him is breathtaking.

"Tell me if I need to stop."

I nod as he aims into me.

"Just breathe and relax," he whispers, pressing into me.

My hands grip his shoulders. "Oh," I gasp. "Oh my god."

He stops. "Are you okay?"

I nod. "You’re just…so big."

He kisses me, working his tongue against mine. As he slowly pushes into me, making me climb up the bed from the pressure, his kisses relax me.

"You’re so beautiful, Hannah," he says, shoving deeper into me as I watch his eyes. "I’ve never felt this way about anyone."

And that line does it. He slides all the way in and groans into my neck.

"You feel so good."

I move my hips, and at every angle, I’m completely filled. He feels so good too, but I can’t find my words to tell him.

He moves slowly, carefully, watching my face for any sign of discomfort or hesitation. But there is none.

We find a rhythm together, unhurried despite the urgency building between us. My hands map the muscles of his back, the places where sweat gathers at his hairline, the tension in his jaw as he maintains control. His eyes never leave mine, this shared gaze another kind of intimacy I hadn't expected.

When release comes, it's not the lightning strike of before, but something deeper, more profound—a wave that builds and crests and carries us both through, my name on his lips, his on mine.

Afterward, he doesn't pull away, doesn't check his phone or make excuses to leave. Instead, he pulls me close, my back to his chest, his arm protective across my waist.

"Stay with me," I whisper again, not ever wanting him to leave.

I feel him smile against my hair. "As long as you'll have me."

The words hang in the quiet of my dorm room, heavy with promise. I know there are still complications—Cade, finals, whatever he has going on with hockey. But for now, in this moment, none of that matters.

What matters is the steady beat of his heart against my back, the gentle rhythm of his breathing as it slows toward sleep, the unfamiliar but welcome feeling of being completely, utterly safe in someone's arms.

I'm not naive enough to think this solves everything. One night of connection, however profound, doesn't erase the bizarre circumstances of our beginning or the challenges we still face. But it's a start.

As sleep begins to claim me, I find myself smiling into the darkness. For someone who prides herself on careful planning and methodical decision-making, I've certainly taken an unconventional path to this moment. But lying here in James Sanderson Connolly's arms, I can't bring myself to regret a single step.