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Paired Stimulus

Nora

It’s Thursday, and I’m sitting in the tutoring center waiting for Dean.

The last two days have been a special brand of torture. I can’t stop thinking about what Daphne said—about how her complaints sound more like confessions, about the words “he wants surrender,” and how they shouldn’t make my pulse kick.

When Dean walks in—right on time, not early like last session—I make myself look busy with my notes. Professional. Distanced. Like my brain hasn’t been replaying Daphne’s words on a loop.

“Shaw,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me.

“Carter.” I don’t look up from my laptop. “I made a study guide for the next exam. We should—”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

I glance up, startled by the directness. “What?”

Dean leans forward, elbows on the table. “After our session on Tuesday. You left the study center before I got out of class yesterday.”

I did. I saw him coming down the hall and ducked out the back entrance like a criminal. I didn’t want to face him—not with Daphne’s words still ringing in my ears.

“I had a meeting,” I lie.

Dean doesn’t respond immediately. He studies me with that unsettling focus, and I realize he doesn’t believe me. He’s waiting me out.

“Let’s just go over the guide,” I say, pushing a printed copy across the table.

He doesn’t touch it.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, forearms on the table.

I notice the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. His eyes—that impossible shade of gray that reminds me of winter skies—search mine with unsettling focus.

“Did I do something?” he asks, his voice low enough that no one else can hear.

“No.”

“Did someone say something?”

My heart stutters. “Why would you think that?”

He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. “Because you’re looking at me like you’re trying to figure something out.”

The accuracy of his observation makes my face heat. I’m supposed to be the one analyzing behavior patterns, not him.

“It’s nothing,” I say, throat tight. “Can we please just focus?”

Dean hesitates, then reaches for the study guide. But his eyes don’t leave mine.

“Whatever you want, Nora,” he says. It doesn’t sound harmless or light.

It sounds like a challenge.

We work in tense silence for twenty minutes, going through mechanical calculations that should be simple but feel impossibly complex with him sitting across from me. Every time I glance up, he’s already looking at me.

When I can’t take it anymore, I set my pen down. “I heard Daphne talking,” I admit, because lying feels pointless. “About you. About why you’re breaking up.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something shutters behind his eyes. “And what did Daphne have to say?”

I should lie. I should brush it off. I should say something vague and change the subject.

Instead, I hear myself say, “That you’re too intense. In the bedroom. Too controlling. That you give orders and expect surrender.”

The words hang between us, vibrating with implications. I’ve crossed a line, shattered the professional veneer, and said the quiet part out loud.

My heart rate accelerates, and I brace for the fallout.

Dean leans forward, his voice dropping to that register that makes my skin prickle. “We’re really going to talk about my kink during our tutoring session?”

My face heats instantly. “No! Of course not.” Time seems to stop between us. I barely breathe. “But you’re not denying it,” I observe quietly.

Dean doesn’t respond immediately. He studies me with that unsettling focus, and I realize he’s not embarrassed. He’s assessing my reaction.

“Does that bother you?” he asks finally, his voice low.

The smart answer is yes. The honest answer is something else entirely.

“No,” I say, barely above a whisper. “It makes me curious.”

His pupils dilate slightly—the only visible reaction to my confession. For a moment, he looks like he might say something more, something dangerous.

Instead, he stands, gathering his belongings with those controlled, efficient movements.

“See you Tuesday, Shaw,” he says, his voice back to that careful neutrality.

But as he passes my chair, he pauses, leans down, his breath warm against my ear.

“Be careful what you ask for,” he murmurs. “You might actually get it.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me frozen in place, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

I already know I’m going to think about those words all night.

Because maybe I’m not the kind of girl who gets flustered.

But right now?

I’m completely undone.