Page 13

LIAM

T he week after Thanksgiving break, December arrives with a vengeance.

Campus transforms into a winter wonderland overnight.

Snow blankets the quad. Holiday lights twinkle from dorm windows, and the dining hall attempts to create festive cheer with questionable gingerbread cookies and candy cane-flavored everything.

And speaking of questioning…right now, that’s all I seem to be able to do.

Standing in front of my closet, I stare at the limited formal wear options while Ryan lounges on my bed, providing unhelpful commentary.

"You're overthinking this,” He says, tossing a mini basketball at my ceiling and catching it repeatedly. "It's just another podcast experiment, right?"

“Uh, sure.” I nod, grabbing another outfit option from the closet.

The lie lands like lead in my chest.

Probably, because the 36 Questions experiment changed something between Piper and me. Including my lies.

We'd recorded a knockout podcast episode from it—our listeners went wild for the vulnerability—but the real impact happened off-air.

In the silences between questions.

In the way her brown eyes softened when I talked about Connor.

In the quiet understanding that passed between us.

And now we're attending the University's Winter Formal together.

For research, of course.

Aptly “entitled: “Love Lab Experiment #4: Navigating Formal Social Settings as a Couple."

"The black shirt," Ryan decides, interrupting my thoughts. "Less try-hard than the blue one."

I pull out the black button-down. "It's not like I'm trying to impress her."

Ryan's eyebrow practically disappears into his hairline. "Sure. And I'm not trying to pass Calculus."

"You're absolutely failing Calculus."

"Exactly my point." He sits up, suddenly serious. "Look, whatever's happening between you and Thompson's sister?—"

"Nothing's happening.”

"—whatever's happening," he continues pointedly, "just be careful. Derek's been asking questions, and you know how he gets about Piper."

I remember all too well.

After the hockey party last week, Derek cornered me in the kitchen, his friendly demeanor barely concealing the steel underneath.

"She's not just another puck bunny, Sullivan," he'd warned. "You hurt her, I hurt you."

My phone buzzes with a text from Piper:

PIPER

Still good for tonight? 7pm pickup? Formal attire necessary.

My thumbs hover over the screen as I think about what to respond.

Since our kiss at the café and the deep dive of the 36 Questions, we've established an uncertain truce.

Things between us are friendly. Occasionally flirtatious.

But careful…to maintain plausible deniability.

I'll be there. Bringing my A-game research skills.

Her reply comes instantly.

PIPER

Don't forget the voice recorder. This one's important for the fellowship application.

Shit. That’s right. The fellowship.

The damn thing is the reason we started this whole podcast charade in the first place.

The reason I should keep reminding myself that whatever is happening between us has an expiration date.

The end of the academic year…

When she'll hopefully win her prestigious fellowship and move on to bigger and better things.

Things that definitely don't include a hockey player with an uncertain future.

At exactly 7:00 p.m., I knock on Piper's apartment door, adjusting my tie.

Kellan helped me with the full ensemble.

Black pants. Black shirt. Charcoal tie and a dark gray blazer that he swore "makes your shoulders look less like you're smuggling bowling balls under your clothes."

The door swings open, but it's Abigail who greets me, her eyes lighting up.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she drawls, looking me up and down. "You clean up impressively, Sullivan."

"Thanks," I manage, trying to peer around her. "Is Piper ready?"

"Almost.” Abigail smirks. "Fair warning: I may have gone a bit overboard helping her get ready. You know, for maximum experimental impact."

Something about her tone makes me narrow my eyes. "What exactly did you?—"

"Abigail, have you seen my—oh."

Piper appears in the hallway behind her roommate, and every coherent thought in my head evaporates like ice on a hot stove.

Her chestnut hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders instead of its usual practical ponytail.

She's wearing a deep burgundy dress that hugs her curves before flowing gracefully to just above her knees, with delicate strappy heels that make her legs look endless.

But it's her eyes that catch me.

Warm brown, enhanced by subtle makeup, looking at me with a hint of uncertainty I've never seen in her confident gaze before.

"You look..." I start, unable to finish the sentence.

"Is it too much?" she asks, smoothing her hands over the dress. "Abigail insisted on the heels, but I have more practical shoes if?—"

"No. It’s never too much. You look—You look absolutely beautiful."

"Oh. Thank you. You look quite... un-hockey-like yourself."

"That's Piper-speak for 'you look hot,'" Abigail whispers, earning a glare from her best friend.

Piper clears her throat, shifting in her heels. “Um, so…the recorder?”

I pat my jacket pocket. "Got it. And I reviewed your notes on the experiment parameters."

"Excellent." She nods, all business now. "We should go. Professor Bennett specifically mentioned he wants to introduce me to the fellowship committee members tonight."

"Your carriage awaits," I say with an exaggerated bow, offering my arm.

As she slips her arm through mine, Abigail snaps a photo with her phone.

"For research documentation," she says innocently when Piper shoots her a look.

The winter formal is being held in the university's historic Great Hall, normally reserved for graduation ceremonies and presidential speeches.

Tonight, it's transformed with twinkling lights, ice-blue drapery, and crystalline decorations that create the illusion of stepping into a frost palace.

Faculty mingle with graduate students and select undergrads, everyone in their finest attire, creating a far more sophisticated atmosphere than the usual keg parties I'm accustomed to attending.

"Remember," Piper murmurs as we enter, her arm still linked with mine, "tonight we're observing how couples navigate status introductions, shared social responsibilities, and physical proximity cues in formal settings."

"Right," I agree, though I'm more focused on the warmth of her body against my side. "And how exactly do 'couples' handle physical proximity cues?"

She glances up at me, a hint of her usual sharpness returning. "Casual touches. Shared glances. Standing close enough to suggest intimacy without inappropriate displays."

"So, I shouldn't throw you over my shoulder and carry you out caveman-style when I get bored of small talk?"

She fights a smile. "I would literally end you."

"Noted."

The first hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully choreographed social navigation.

I watch Piper transform into an even more polished version of herself—charming professors, asking insightful questions, laughing at academic jokes I don't understand.

Her hand remains resting in the crook of my elbow, occasionally squeezing gently when she wants to signal something.

To my surprise, I find myself slipping easily into the role of attentive partner.

Fetching drinks. Joining conversations at the right moments. Standing back when she needs the spotlight.

It feels strangely natural, like a well-practiced power play on ice, anticipating her movements and complementing them with my own.

"Sullivan," a familiar voice calls, and I turn to see Professor Bennett approaching with a small group of distinguished- looking academics. "And Ms. Thompson! I was hoping to catch you both."

Piper straightens beside me, professional smile slipping on like a second skin. "Professor Bennett. How lovely to see you."

"These are the members of the Williamson Fellowship committee," the professor explains, introducing each imposing academic in turn. "They've been quite impressed with your podcast's innovative approach to relationship communication."

"Really?" Piper's voice remains steady, but I feel her hand tighten on my arm.

"Indeed," says an older woman with a sleek silver bob. "The integration of empirical data with experiential perspective creates a compelling narrative framework. And the chemistry between you two translates remarkably well to audio format."

I feel Piper tense beside me at the word "chemistry."

"It's all about the research," she says quickly. "Liam and I have very different approaches, which creates natural conversational friction."

"Opposites attract, as they say," says another amused committee member.

"Speaking of research," Professor Bennett interjects, "tell them about your most recent experiment, the one with the 36 Questions."

As Piper launches into an explanation of psychological vulnerability frameworks, I watch her in profile.

The animated way she uses her hands when discussing research.

The slight furrow between her brows when she's making an important point. The genuine passion that lights her from within.

And then it hits me. Like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

No subtlety. No finesse.

I'm falling for Piper Thompson.

Not just physically attracted. Not just intrigued.

But genuinely falling for her.

For her methodical mind.

For her determined spirit, her hidden vulnerability, and even her infuriating tendency to overthink everything.

Well, shit.

"Don't you agree, Liam?" Piper's voice cuts through my epiphany.

"Sorry, what?" I blink, suddenly aware that everyone is looking at me.

"About how structured communication exercises can help bridge philosophical differences," she prompts.

"Absolutely.” I clear my throat. “I still maintain that some of the most honest connections happen in unplanned moments, when the structures fall away and you're just... authentically present with each other."

Piper stares at me, something shifting.

"A compelling dialectic," notes the silver-haired woman. "We look forward to reviewing your fellowship application, Ms. Thompson."