Page 20

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’s okay, 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 see you.

Harvey Hall, 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.

This is Dean in his element, and it’s fascinating to see.

“Hey,” I say finally when it starts to feel awkward just standing there.

He looks up, his serious expression immediately softening when he sees me. “Hey,” he says, setting down his tools.

I move further into the lab, curiosity drawing me toward the workbench. “What are you working on?”

“The ankle joint for my Archer submission.” He gestures to the partial prosthetic leg in front of him. “I’m trying to increase the range of motion without sacrificing stability.”

I lean closer, genuinely interested. The mechanics are complex—a series of interconnected parts that mimic the natural movement of an ankle, but with additional features I don’t understand.

“It’s designed for athletes,” Dean explains, noticing my focus. “Especially those who need lateral mobility—basketball players, soccer, hockey.”

“Hockey,” I repeat softly, remembering his mention of his friend who lost his leg.

He nods, something shifting in his expression. “Want to see the whole lab? This is just my station, but there’s more to the project.”

“I’d like that.”

He leads me through the lab, explaining various components of the research, the different team members’ contributions, and the progress they’ve made over the past year. His voice changes when he talks about the work—more animated, less guarded, filled with a passion that’s beautiful to witness.

“This is the testing area,” he says, bringing me to a space with treadmills, balance platforms, and motion capture equipment. “We bring in amputees to try the prototypes, record the biomechanics, and make adjustments based on their feedback.”

“Do you have many volunteers?” I ask.

“A dozen or so, mostly through the VA hospital partnership.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s hard to watch sometimes. The frustration when something doesn’t work right, the disappointment. But when we get it right—when you see someone move in a way they haven’t been able to since their injury—it’s worth it.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something personal that goes beyond academic interest or career ambition.

“Your friend,” I say carefully. “Jesse. Would he have benefited from something like this?”

Dean is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the prosthetic ankle still sitting on his workbench. “Yeah,” he says finally. “He would have.”

He walks back to his station, and I follow, sensing he wants to show me something else. From a drawer beneath the workbench, he pulls out a notebook—not a scientific journal, but something more personal, the cover worn from handling.

“Jesse and I played hockey together since we were kids,” he says, opening the notebook to reveal photographs, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes. “He was better than me. Could have gone pro if he wanted to.”

I sit beside him as he turns the pages, showing me his childhood—two boys on ice, grinning with missing teeth; teenagers at tournaments, lanky and serious; young men in their high school team uniforms, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

“What happened?” I ask, though I think I already know parts of the story.

“Car accident senior year. Black ice, rural road, no guardrail.” His voice is controlled, but I can hear the effort it takes. “He was driving too fast. Went off the road, and his car rolled. His right leg was crushed in the impact They had to use the jaws of life to extract him. He was lucky he survived.”

I look at the photos, at the boy with the wide smile and confident stance. In the team photo, the number 97 is clearly visible on his jersey.

“That’s when I decided on biomedical engineering,” Dean continues. “I was already accepted for pre-med, but after the accident, after seeing how the prosthetics available to him limited his life… I changed my focus.”

“He must have appreciated having you there through his recovery,” I say softly.

Dean’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t there enough. I was away at college when things got really bad for him. He’d call sometimes, drunk, angry about all the things he couldn’t do anymore. I’d try to help, but…” He trails off, staring at a photo of Jesse balanced on crutches, his expression defiant despite the empty space where his right leg should be.

I hate this for Dean.

Hate the pain I see in his eyes.

“What happened then?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to know.

“Two years after the accident.” Dean closes the notebook gently. “He took his own life. He just couldn’t do it anymore.”

My breath catches. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t just the leg,” he says, his voice low. “It was everything that came with it. The pain, the limitations, the way people looked at him differently. The fact that hockey—the thing he loved most—was impossible with the prosthetic he had.”

He stands abruptly, moving to a different workbench where several framed certificates hang on the wall above. Among them is a hockey jersey in a shadowbox—black and gold with the number 97 prominently displayed.

“Is that…” I start.

“His, yeah.” Dean doesn’t turn to look at me. “I keep it here to remind me why this matters. Why it has to work.”

I remember the tattoo I glimpsed on Dean’s inner thigh—Roman numerals that I couldn’t quite decipher in the moment. XCVII “Ninety-seven. That’s your tattoo.”

He turns to me then, surprise evident in his expression. “You noticed that?”

“I did,” I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I didn’t realize what it meant.”

“It’s his number,” Dean confirms. “Got it after he died. To remember.”

The vulnerability in his admission, in showing me this personal connection to his work, creates a tightness in my chest. This is a side of Dean I’ve never seen before—not the controlled, dominant figure from our intimate encounters, not the focused student from our tutoring sessions, but something deeper, more raw.

“Why are you showing me all this?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He considers the question, his gaze steady on mine. “Because I wanted you to understand. Why this project matters so much. Why the Archer Initiative isn’t just about my career.”

“Thank you,” I say finally. “For trusting me with this.”

He nods, something like relief crossing his features. “I should get back to work. The Archer deadline’s coming up.”

“Of course.” I gather my bag, sensing the moment has passed. “I have studying to do anyway.”

Dean walks me to the lab door, stopping just before opening it. “I want to see you again. Tonight? My place?”

The invitation sends a thrill through me, despite everything I’ve just learned about his past, despite the emotional complication it adds to what was supposed to be a simple physical arrangement.

“Eight o’clock,” I say.

He opens the door, and as I step past him, his hand brushes mine—a brief, subtle touch that could be accidental but isn’t.

“Nora,” he says quietly, stopping me before I can walk away. “Thank you. For understanding about Daphne last night.”

I offer a small smile. “That’s what friends do, right?”

“Is that what we are?” he asks, his expression unreadable. “Friends?”

The question feels loaded, fraught with nuance I’m not sure either of us is ready to explore.

“Among other things,” I say finally.

He nods, accepting the ambiguity. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Walking away from the engineering building, I’m struck by how much has changed in such a short time. What began as curiosity, as a controlled experiment in letting go, has evolved into something far more complex. Something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.

I pull out my phone, intending to text Sadie about meeting for coffee, when I notice a text from Daphne:

Can we talk? It’s important.

A cold weight settles in my stomach as I stare at the message. After everything Dean just shared, after the connection we just deepened, the last thing I want to do is face Daphne and her unknown questions.

But I can’t avoid her forever. And if I’m being honest with myself, the guilt is starting to eat at me.

Sure , I type back. When and where?

Her response is immediate: Student Center. 30 minutes?

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever’s coming.

Me: See you there.

As I change direction, heading toward the Student Center instead of back to my studying, I wonder if this is the universe’s way of maintaining balance—giving me deeper insight into Dean with one hand while potentially taking him away with the other.

Because if Daphne has realized what’s happening between us, if she’s upset about it, I’m not sure what I’ll do. The friend code may be arbitrary, may be unfair when applied to exes, but it exists for a reason.

And I’m about to find out just how much it matters.