Page 22

Family Matters

Nora

I knock on Dean’s door at exactly eight o’clock, a flutter of nervous anticipation in my stomach. After everything that’s happened today—seeing his lab, learning more about Jesse, and my conversation with Daphne—it feels like we’re on the edge of something new and dangerous.

The door opens, and there’s Dean in jeans and a simple gray t-shirt, his feet bare. A familiar warmth spreads through me at the sight of him.

“Hey,” he says, stepping back to let me in.

“Hey.” I move past him, catching the clean scent of his soap as I do. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Productive.” He closes the door, watching me with that intense focus. “Yours?”

I think about my meeting with Daphne, the relief of knowing she’s moved on, the guilt that lingers despite it. “Interesting,” I say finally.

Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. “Hungry?” he asks instead, gesturing toward the kitchen counter where two takeout bags sit waiting.

“Starving, actually. I’ve been studying all day.”

“I ordered Chinese. Hope that’s okay.” He moves to the counter, unpacking containers. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a few different things.”

The simple thoughtfulness of the gesture touches me. “Chinese is perfect.”

We move around his kitchen with surprising ease, Dean gathering plates and utensils, me opening containers and serving food. There’s a strange domesticity to it that should probably worry me—another rule about to bend—but instead, it feels comfortable. Natural.

He scoops a pile of chow mein onto my plate. “Want more?”

“That’s plenty,” I say.

Just as we’re about to settle on the couch with our plates, a sharp knock at the door interrupts the moment. Dean frowns, setting his plate down.

“Not expecting anyone?” I ask.

He shakes his head, moving to the door. When he opens it, I hear a familiar voice—similar to Dean’s but lighter, with a hint of something like desperation.

“Logan?” Dean’s tone shifts immediately to concern. “What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

A younger version of Dean steps into view—similar height and build, but less defined, with shorter hair and softer features. His eyes are red-rimmed, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and distress.

“Hey, D,” he says, then notices me standing awkwardly by the kitchen counter. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”

Dean glances back at me, then at his brother. “It’s fine. This is Nora. Nora, this is my brother, Logan.”

I offer a small wave, suddenly very aware of the intimate evening that’s clearly not going to unfold as planned. “Hi.”

Logan attempts a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry to crash your night.”

“What happened?” Dean asks, guiding his brother inside with a hand on his shoulder.

Logan runs a hand through his hair—a gesture so similar to Dean’s that it makes my chest tighten. “Dad called. He’s getting remarried.”

Dean’s expression hardens. “When?”

“Next month. He wants us there.” Logan laughs, a hollow sound. “Like we’re one big happy family or something.”

The tension in Dean’s jaw, the protective hand still on his brother’s shoulder—it reveals a side of him I’ve only glimpsed before. Not the controlled, dominant Dean I’ve come to know, but someone more vulnerable, more human.

“Have you eaten?” Dean asks.

Logan shakes his head. “Not hungry.”

“Bullshit. We’ve got plenty of food.” Dean gestures toward the kitchen. “Sit. Eat.”

It’s not a suggestion. Logan seems to recognize this, moving toward the counter without further protest. I stand there awkwardly, not sure if I should stay or go.

Dean catches my eye. “You don’t have to leave,” he says quietly.

“Are you sure? This seems… family.”

“It is.” He holds my gaze. “Stay. Please.”

The request surprises me. Dean, who’s always so careful about compartmentalizing, wants me to stay for this clearly personal moment. It feels significant in a way I can’t quite articulate.

“Okay,” I agree.

We end up at Dean’s small dining table, the three of us sharing Chinese food from containers that get passed around with surprising ease. Logan’s initial discomfort at my presence fades as the meal progresses, especially when Dean mentions I’m his academic advisor.

“So you’re the one keeping this guy from flunking out,” Logan says, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Good luck with that.”

“He doesn’t need much help,” I say, catching Dean’s eye. “He’s pretty capable.”

“Always has been,” Logan agrees, reaching for more sweet and sour chicken. “Mom used to say he came out of the womb with a five-year plan.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s affection beneath the exasperation. “Mom exaggerates.”

“Not about that,” he counters. “Remember when you were eight and made that chart tracking your hockey progress? With the graphs and everything?”

A hint of color appears on Dean’s cheeks. “I liked data.”

“Liked?” Logan snorts. “You used to sleep with a calculator under your pillow.”

I laugh, delighted by this glimpse into Dean’s childhood. “That explains a lot, actually.”

Dean shoots me a look that’s half warning, half amusement. “Don’t encourage him.”

The conversation flows more easily than I would have expected, Logan gradually relaxing as the focus shifts from their father to safer topics—childhood stories, hockey memories, campus gossip. I find myself genuinely enjoying his company, appreciating the way his presence brings out a different side of Dean.

When Logan excuses himself to use the bathroom, Dean turns to me with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Don’t be,” I say honestly. “He clearly needed you tonight.”

Dean’s expression softens slightly. “He’ll be okay. He just—” He pauses, searching for words. “Dad’s remarrying hits him harder. He was younger when Dad left.”

“And you’ve been picking up the pieces ever since,” I observe.

His eyes meet mine, something like surprise flickering across his face. “Something like that.”

I hesitate, then unsure if I should ask the question that’s been nagging at me all evening.

Of course, Dean notices.

And calls me on it.

“Say what’s on your mind, Nora.”

I swallow. “Do you… still talk to her? Daphne, I mean?”

His eyebrows lift slightly, clearly not expecting this turn in the conversation. “Sometimes. When she needs something, like the other night.” He studies my face. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “After helping her the other night, I thought maybe…”

“Maybe what?” he prompts when I trail off.

“Maybe you were reconsidering this. Us.” The words come out more vulnerable than I intended.

I feel stupid.

There’s not an us .

There’s just two people who decided to hook up.

Dean moves closer, the heat of his body immediately tangible. “Are you wondering if I’m going to go back to Daphne?”

I shrug, embarrassed by my insecurity. “It would make more sense. Less complicated.”

“Do you want to stop this?” he asks directly, his eyes never leaving mine.

“No,” I admit without hesitation. “Do you?”

Something shifts in his expression—the carefully controlled facade giving way to raw intensity.

“No.”

Before he can say more, Logan returns, his phone in hand. “Mom’s calling. Sorry, I should take this.”

Dean nods, moving back to a respectable distance from me. “Take it in my room if you want privacy.”

Logan disappears down the hallway, the door closing behind him. Dean turns back to me, something like regret in his eyes.

“I should probably go,” I say, understanding the situation. “Give you guys some space.”

He doesn’t argue, which tells me I’m right. “I’ll walk you back.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “Your brother—”

“Will be fine for twenty minutes.” Dean reaches for his hoodie. “I want to.”

The simple statement, combined with the protective gesture, creates a warmth in my chest I’m not ready to examine too closely.

We walk through the quiet campus together, the night air cool against my skin. He keeps a respectable distance between us—anyone seeing us would assume we’re just friends or classmates—but there’s an intimacy in the silence we share, in the occasional brush of his arm against mine.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he says finally.

“Don’t be,” I repeat. “Family comes first.”

He glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. “Logan doesn’t usually show up unannounced. Dad’s remarriage is… complicated.”

“I gathered.” I hesitate, then add, “He seems like a good kid.”

“He is.” Dean’s voice softens. “Too good, sometimes. Takes things too hard.”

“Unlike his stoic older brother?” I tease gently.

A small smile touches his lips. “We have different coping mechanisms.”

“Let me guess—yours involves control, precision, and extreme compartmentalization.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “You’ve been analyzing me, Shaw.”

“It’s what I do,” I say with a shrug. “And you’re not exactly subtle.”

He laughs, a genuine sound that sends warmth through me. “Fair enough.”

We reach my dorm entrance too quickly. Dean stops, looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read in the dim light.

“Another time?” he asks, his voice low.

“Definitely,” I agree, meaning it.

He hesitates, glancing around to ensure we’re alone, then leans down to press a brief but firm kiss to my lips. “Text me when you’re inside.”

“I will.”

He starts to turn away, then pauses. “Nora?”

“Yeah?”

“Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

I watch him walk away, his tall figure disappearing into the shadows, before turning to enter my building. As I climb the stairs to my floor, I find myself smiling despite the interrupted evening. Tonight wasn’t what either of us planned, but I saw parts of Dean I might never have seen otherwise—the protective older brother, the surrogate father, the boy who once made charts to track his hockey progress.

The man behind the carefully controlled exterior.

And somehow, that glimpse feels more intimate than anything physical we might have shared.