Page 28

Unexpected Encounters

Nora

“We should probably get going,” I say, slipping my last notebook into my bag. “You have to meet the team in thirty minutes.”

Dean nods, gathering his own materials with calculated efficiency. “What about you? Where are you headed next?”

“Cognitive neuroscience in Harwell.” I smooth my sweater, hyperaware of how I must look—cheeks still flushed, lips slightly swollen, hair not quite as neat as it was an hour ago. I catch my reflection in the dark screen of my phone and quickly look away.

The evidence of what just happened is written all over my face.

My wrists still tingle where the hockey laces bound them, a ghost sensation I can’t seem to shake. If I close my eyes, I can still feel Dean’s hands in my hair, guiding me, his voice rough with desire as he praised me. The memory alone sends a shiver through me.

“Ready?” he asks, holding the door for me.

I nod, slinging my bag over my shoulder and stepping out first. One last glance around the study room to ensure we haven’t forgotten anything—or left evidence of activities definitely not in the student handbook.

The hockey laces are now tucked safely in Dean’s bag. No trace remains of what transpired on that table, except perhaps the slightly disturbed arrangement of chairs and the lingering pheromones in the air.

Just as Dean steps out behind me, closing the door with a soft click, voices echo down the otherwise empty hallway.

“There he is! Told you he’d be in one of these study rooms.”

I freeze, recognizing Gavin’s voice immediately. Dean tenses beside me, his hand briefly touching the small of my back before dropping away—a protective gesture cut short by the approaching audience.

Gavin rounds the corner, followed by another player I vaguely recognize—tall, with tousled brown hair and the kind of symmetrical features that would look at home on a magazine cover. Henry something. I’ve seen him at games, noticed the way other girls watch him. He’s objectively gorgeous in that effortless way that usually comes with an ego to match.

“Carter!” Gavin calls, his eyes flicking between us with poorly concealed interest. “Coach sent us to find you. Team meeting got moved up.”

“I was heading there now,” Dean says, his voice neutral, betraying nothing of what just happened minutes ago.

Gavin’s smirk suggests he has his suspicions anyway. “In the study rooms again, huh? Must be some intense… tutoring.”

I feel heat rush to my cheeks but force myself to maintain composure. Four years of competitive debate in high school taught me how to appear calm even when I’m screaming internally.

“Biomechanics doesn’t learn itself,” I say coolly, adjusting the strap of my bag.

Henry’s eyes land on me, assessing in a way that makes me uncomfortably aware of my slightly disheveled appearance. His gaze lingers a beat too long on my mouth before shifting to Dean.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asks, a hint of something playful in his tone.

Dean’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Henry, Nora. Nora, Henry.”

“Nora,” Henry repeats, offering a dazzling smile. “Dean’s tutor, right? I didn’t realize academic support was so… dedicated.”

There’s an unmistakable innuendo in his words, one that sends a fresh wave of heat to my face. I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly.

“The department takes student success very seriously,” I say, my voice steady despite the embarrassment churning in my stomach.

Henry laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “I bet they do.” He turns to Dean. “I thought you’d be in there with Daphne, man. Didn’t she text you again yesterday?”

The name hits like a bucket of ice water, instantly cooling the lingering warmth from our encounter. Daphne. My friend. Who apparently texted Dean yesterday—something he didn’t mention.

“No,” Dean says curtly. “That was about her sweater.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Her ‘sweater,’ huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Her actual sweater, Walsh,” Dean says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I’ve come to recognize. “She left it at my place months ago.”

The tension between them is sudden and palpable. I glance at Gavin, who’s watching the exchange with open curiosity, clearly filing away information for later analysis.

“We should go,” I say, desperate to escape this increasingly awkward situation. “I have class in ten minutes.”

“I’ll walk you,” Dean offers immediately.

“No need,” I counter, perhaps too quickly. “Harwell’s in the opposite direction of the athletic center. You’ll be late for your meeting.”

A flicker of something—frustration? disappointment?—crosses Dean’s face, but he nods. “I’ll text you later?”

“Sure,” I say, suddenly hyperaware of our audience. “Good luck at practice.”

I turn to leave, feeling three pairs of eyes on my back as I walk away. My legs are steadier than they have any right to be, given what just happened in that study room and the conversation that followed.

“Good to meet you, Nora!” Henry calls after me.

I raise a hand in acknowledgment without looking back, unwilling to see whatever expression might be on Dean’s face.

Once I turn the corner, I lean against the wall, releasing a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hand comes up to touch my lips, still sensitive from Dean’s kisses, from taking him in my mouth while he watched with those intense gray eyes.

And then Daphne’s name, dropped so casually into the aftermath.

Didn’t she text you again yesterday?

Again. Implying multiple texts. Ongoing communication. Something Dean evidently hadn’t thought important enough to mention.

I shake my head, pushing away from the wall and continuing toward Harwell. I’m being irrational. Daphne texted him about her sweater—something she literally told me about yesterday at lunch. There’s nothing suspicious about that.

But Henry’s assumption—that Dean would be in a study room with Daphne, not me—stings in a way I hadn’t anticipated. A reminder that in the social ecosystem of this campus, Dean and Daphne were a known entity. An established couple. Something that made sense to people.

Dean and Nora? That’s still a secret. Something happening in locked study rooms and darkened apartments. Something we haven’t defined, haven’t acknowledged publicly.

Something that still feels tenuous, despite the hockey laces and whispered confessions and moments of perfect synchronicity.

As I near Harwell, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Dean: Sorry about that. Henry’s an ass.

I stare at the screen, unsure how to respond. Part of me wants to ask about Daphne’s texts—how many, how often, what about. Another part recognizes that as the irrational jealousy it is.

Me: It’s fine.

I slip my phone back into my pocket as I enter the lecture hall, sliding into my usual seat just as Professor Lin begins setting up the presentation. My notebook open before me, pen poised to take notes, I try to focus on neurological pathways and cognitive processing models.

But all I can think about is the weight of hockey laces around my wrists, the intensity in Dean’s eyes as he watched me take him in my mouth, and the casual way Henry assumed Dean would be with Daphne instead of me.

All I can think about is how easily I surrendered control to Dean Carter, and how impossible it seems to regain that control now—not just of him, but of myself. Of what I want. Of what I’m willing to risk to get it.

Because the truth, the terrifying truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks now, is that this thing with Dean stopped being casual the moment it started. Maybe even before that—in that first tutoring session when he looked at me like he could see straight through every defense I’d so carefully constructed.

I’ve spent my life building walls, creating systems, establishing control. And in less than an hour, with nothing but hockey laces and whispered commands, Dean dismantled all of it.

The scariest part?

I let him.

And I’ll let him do it again.

Professor Lin is twenty minutes into her lecture on prefrontal cortex development when my phone vibrates against my thigh. Once, twice, three times in quick succession. Not texts, but a call.

I discreetly slide the phone from my pocket, planning to silence it, when I see Professor Wexler’s name on the screen. He never calls during class hours—knows my schedule too well for that.

Which means it’s important.

I slip out of my seat, murmuring an apology to Professor Lin as I hurry toward the exit. The call stops just as I reach the hallway, but seconds later, it starts again.

“Professor?” I answer, heart racing at the potential implications. Did something happen with our oxytocin study? Did one of my samples get contaminated?

“Nora, excellent.” Wexler’s voice comes through, excitement evident in his typically measured tone. “I’ve just had a very interesting conversation with Dr. Prescott from the Archer Initiative committee.”

My breath catches. The Archer Initiative—the most prestigious undergraduate research fellowship in the country. Fully funded graduate studies, guaranteed lab placement, career connections that open doors most people never even get to knock on.

It’s a very big deal.

“They’ve made a significant change this year,” Wexler continues, oblivious to my racing pulse. “Instead of selecting three recipients nationally, they’re narrowing it to just one.”

“One?” I repeat, the implications immediately clear. Infinitely more prestige, infinitely smaller chances.

“Yes. One student from all the nominated candidates across the country. The funding has been consolidated to create what they’re calling a ‘transformational opportunity’ for a single exceptional researcher.” The enthusiasm in his voice is unmistakable. “And I want it to be you, Nora.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “That’s… that’s incredible, Professor.”

“It’s more than incredible—it’s career-defining. The selected fellow will have unprecedented resources, mentorship from the top minds in their field, and virtually guaranteed placement in any graduate program they choose afterward.” He pauses, his voice turning serious. “Nora, I don’t say this lightly, but your work on neural pathways and emotional decision-making is exactly what the committee is looking for this year. They specifically mentioned innovative approaches to neurological research with practical applications.”

I lean against the wall, my mind racing. One student. The best of the best. Everything I’ve worked for concentrated into a single opportunity.

It’s a little overwhelming.

“The final nomination deadline is in two weeks,” Wexler continues. “I’d like to meet tomorrow to discuss strengthening your application. I’ve already spoken with the department chair, and we’re prepared to give this our full institutional support.”

“Of course,” I manage, trying to sound professionally composed rather than completely overwhelmed. “What time tomorrow?”

“Two o’clock in my office. Oh, and Nora?” His voice drops slightly. “This is strictly confidential for now. The committee is still finalizing the selection criteria, and we have a significant advantage being among the first to know about the change. I’d hate for other departments to get ahead of us.”

Other departments. Like Engineering.

“Complete confidentiality,” I assure him. “I understand.”

We say our goodbyes, and I lean against the wall, staring at my phone screen. Two missed texts from Dean.

Dean: Still thinking about you.

Dean: About those hockey laces.

I close my eyes, reality crashing down with merciless clarity.

The Archer Initiative. One position. Unprecedented opportunity.

I know how much this means to Dean. How personal it is. His prosthetics project isn’t just academic ambition—it’s a mission born from loss and guilt. A way to honor Jesse’s memory by creating technology that could have changed his life.

But this is my dream too. The culmination of years of sacrifice and determination. The validation that every sleepless night, every missed social event, every careful calculation of my academic path has been worth it.

And now, with the positions reduced to just one, the competition has become exponentially more intense. Every department will be pushing their top candidate, fighting for that single coveted spot.

What I don’t know—what Wexler probably doesn’t know yet either—is whether Engineering will be nominating Dean. Whether we’ll end up in direct competition for the same life-changing opportunity.

The possibility sits heavy in my stomach, a cold weight of dread. If we’re competing for the same position, there’s no clean resolution. One of us wins, one of us loses. No middle ground.

And now our professional ambitions are hopelessly entangled with… whatever this is between us.

If anyone on the Archer committee discovered the nature of our relationship—discovered that I’ve been on my knees for a potential academic competitor—my professional credibility could be questioned. My nomination potentially compromised.

Everything I’ve sacrificed and struggled for since my father left—endangered.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold hallway floor, head in my hands, Professor Lin’s lecture continuing without me on the other side of the door.

What have we done?