Page 37

Public Variables

Nora

“Are you sure this looks okay?” I smooth the skirt of my dress for the tenth time, studying my reflection in Dean’s bathroom mirror with critical eyes.

The navy blue dress is more formal than anything I’ve worn in years—fitted bodice with a subtle V-neck, flaring out to a full skirt that falls just above my ankles. I borrowed it from Sadie, who insisted the color “brings out the gold flecks in your eyes,” whatever that means.

“You’ve asked me that three times,” Dean says, appearing in the doorway behind me. “And the answer is still the same.”

Our eyes meet in the mirror. He’s in a charcoal gray suit that fits him perfectly, crisp white shirt, no tie. His hair is styled with slightly more care than usual, though a rebellious curl has already escaped at his temple. He looks sophisticated, polished—and entirely too handsome for my peace of mind.

“Which is?” I prompt, needing the reassurance despite knowing it’s irrational.

He steps closer, hands settling on my shoulders, his chest warm against my back. “You’re beautiful.” His lips brush the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. “And everyone at that gala is going to wonder what you’re doing with me.”

I lean back against him, absorbing his steady presence. “I’m pretty sure it’ll be the opposite.”

“Then we’ll both be wondering the same thing.” He meets my eyes in the mirror again, his expression serious despite the lightness in his tone. “Are you nervous about tonight?”

I consider lying, then opt for honesty. “Yes. But not about the dress.”

“About?”

“Being out. Together. In public.” I turn to face him, needing to see his expression directly. “In front of professors and department heads and—”

“And Daphne?” he finishes gently.

I nod, guilt flashing through me. “It’s been three weeks since we talked. Things are… better, but still fragile.”

“We don’t have to go,” he says, his hands sliding down my arms to capture my fingers. “We could order takeout, watch a movie here. No pressure.”

The offer is tempting—the safety of privacy, of keeping our relationship in the bubble we’ve constructed. But that’s the old Nora, the one who hid and calculated and weighed every risk.

“No,” I say firmly. “I want to go. I want everyone to know.”

His smile is worth every flutter of anxiety in my stomach. “Then let’s show them.”

The University Science Museum gleams with soft lighting, transformed from its usual academic setting into something almost magical. Glass cases of artifacts and models are illuminated by strategic spotlights. White-clothed tables dot the periphery, laden with appetizers and champagne flutes. A string quartet plays softly in the corner.

But it’s the special exhibition that dominates the central hall—the prosthetic limbs that draw clusters of well-dressed faculty and donors.

Dean’s hand rests at the small of my back as we enter, a warm anchor in unfamiliar territory. “There’s Whitman,” he says, nodding toward a group near a display of robotic limbs. “We should say hello.”

I swallow my nervousness and nod. Professor Whitman has always intimidated me slightly—his reputation as a brilliant but demanding mentor preceding him—but he’s Dean’s advisor, which makes him important.

“Dean!” Whitman booms when he spots us approaching. “And Ms. Shaw, what a pleasant surprise.” His eyebrows lift slightly, taking in Dean’s hand on my back.

“Professor,” Dean greets him with a respectful nod. “The exhibition looks incredible.”

“Cutting-edge work,” Whitman agrees, turning toward the display. “Some designs not entirely dissimilar from your proposals, I might add.”

Dean’s expression brightens. “I noticed that. The sensory feedback circuit is particularly impressive.”

“Indeed.” Whitman turns to me, and I brace for awkwardness. “Ms. Shaw, I understand congratulations are in order—for both of you. The Archer committee made an exceptional choice. Or choices, rather.”

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by his acknowledgment. “I was shocked, honestly.”

“Don’t be. Your work on neural feedback loops has significant implications for our field as well.” His gaze shifts between us, something like approval in his expression. “I see why you two complement each other so well. Academically speaking, of course.”

Dean’s fingers press gently against my back—support, reassurance. “Actually, sir, we’re together outside of academics as well.”

I hold my breath, uncertain how this open acknowledgment will be received.

Whitman looks unsurprised. “Yes, I’d gathered that.” A hint of a smile touches his usually stern face. “The department gossip mill is nothing if not efficient.”

My cheeks warm. “We’ve been trying to be professional.”

“And you have been,” Whitman assures me. “Whatever happened between you has clearly not compromised the quality of your work. Quite the opposite, I suspect.” He glances over our shoulders. “Ah, there’s Dr. Martinez. Excuse me—we’re discussing next year’s funding allocation.”

As he walks away, I exhale slowly. “That was… not what I expected.”

Dean’s expression is similarly relieved. “He knew already. And apparently didn’t care.”

“One down, one entire academic community to go,” I say, only half-joking.

Dean laughs softly, guiding me toward the champagne table. “Let’s get a drink. Then I want to show you something.”

Armed with flutes of champagne, we wind through the exhibition, stopping occasionally to examine displays that catch our interest. I’m surprised by how quickly I relax, losing myself in scientific curiosity and Dean’s quiet commentary. Each time we encounter colleagues or professors, I tense slightly, waiting for judgment that never comes. Instead, there are knowing smiles, friendly introductions, and occasional congratulations on our Archer awards.

“People definitely know about us,” I mutter after a particularly pointed smile from the chair of bioengineering.

“Does that bother you?” Dean asks, his gaze assessing.

I consider the question seriously. “No,” I realize, somewhat surprised by my own answer. “It’s actually a relief. No more hiding, like you said.”

His smile warms me more than the champagne. “Good. Now, about that thing I wanted to show you—it’s just over here.”

He leads me toward a less crowded section of the exhibition, where a single display stands somewhat apart from the others. As we approach, I realize it’s a prototype of a prosthetic leg—sleeker than most designs I’ve seen, with an intricate joint system at the ankle.

“Is this—” I begin, recognition dawning.

“My design,” Dean confirms. “Or an early version of it. Whitman submitted it to the exhibition committee a month ago.”

I step closer, examining the detailed mechanics. The ankle joint features multiple pivot points, allowing for a range of motion far beyond typical prosthetics.

“For athletes,” I say softly, remembering his passionate explanation of the project.

“Yes.” His expression turns more serious, touched with the vulnerability he rarely shows in public. “Jesse would have been able to skate with something like this. Maybe not compete at the same level, but move on the ice again.”

I reach for his hand, squeezing gently. “It’s brilliant, Dean.”

“It’s a start.” His thumb traces patterns on my palm. “The Archer grant will help take it to the next level. And your research on neural pathways could actually help with the sensory feedback components.”

The connection between our work strikes me anew—how perfectly our academic interests complement each other, creating possibilities neither could achieve alone. Just like us.

“We make a good team,” I say, looking up at him.

His eyes soften. “The best.”

The moment stretches between us, intimate despite the public setting. I’m aware of people moving around us, of distant conversations and the gentle notes from the string quartet, but they feel peripheral, secondary to the man standing before me.

“Dean, Nora! I thought that was you.”

The familiar voice breaks the bubble of our moment. I turn to see Professor Wexler approaching, his characteristic bowtie slightly askew.

“Professor,” I greet him, instinctively taking a small step away from Dean. The gesture doesn’t escape Wexler’s notice, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“No need for that on my account,” he says, gesturing between us. “Though I do appreciate the professional boundaries you’ve maintained during academic hours.”

I feel my cheeks heat. “We’ve tried to be—”

“Discreet, yes.” Wexler nods. “Though perhaps not quite as discreet as you thought. The department has been running a small betting pool on when you’d make it official.”

Dean coughs slightly. “A betting pool?”

“Indeed. Dr. Lin won, I believe. She had ‘Spring Gala’ in the office pool.” He sips his champagne, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I was off by a week.”

“You bet on us?” I’m not sure whether to be mortified or amused.

“My dear, faculty members have precious little entertainment between grant cycles,” Wexler says. “Your clandestine romance was the most interesting thing to happen in the department since Dr. Heatherton’s ferret escaped into the ventilation system.”

Dean’s shoulders shake slightly with suppressed laughter. “And who started this betting pool, Professor?”

Wexler’s eyes twinkle. “That would be telling.” He glances over at the prosthetic display. “Impressive work, Carter. I can see why the Archer committee was so impressed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And Nora, I’ve been meaning to tell you—your latest data set on the oxytocin receptors is quite promising. I’d like to discuss expanding that line of inquiry when you have a moment.”

“Of course,” I say, professional interest immediately engaged. “I’ve been thinking about incorporating some new imaging techniques that might—”

“Not now,” Wexler interrupts gently. “Tonight is a celebration. We’ll talk science on Monday.”

As he moves away to greet another colleague, Dean leans close to my ear. “See? The world didn’t end because people know about us.”

“Apparently they’ve known for a while,” I counter, still processing the betting pool revelation.

“Does that bother you?”

I consider the question, then shake my head. “No. It’s actually kind of… liberating.” I lean against him slightly, no longer worried about who might see. “Though I might never look at Dr. Lin the same way again.”

Dean laughs, the sound warming me from within. “Come on. There’s a biomechanical hand display I want to check out, then maybe we can find something to eat?”

We make our way through the exhibition, stopping at various displays that interest us. Dean’s hand rarely leaves the small of my back, a constant, comforting presence.

I catch myself smiling for no particular reason, happiness bubbling up unexpectedly in quiet moments.

We’re examining a neural mapping display when I spot her—Daphne, elegant in a rose-gold dress, standing near the entrance with a tall man I recognize as her new boyfriend. She hasn’t seen us yet, but it’s only a matter of time in the limited space.

Dean follows my frozen gaze, understanding immediately. “We can go if you want,” he offers quietly. “There’s a side exit near the robotics lab.”

I consider it—the easy escape, avoiding potential awkwardness. But running away feels like a step backward.

“No,” I say, more firmly than I feel. “We’re staying.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” I take a deep breath. “But maybe we could get another drink first?”

Dean smiles, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Whatever you need.”

As we make our way toward the refreshment table, Daphne spots us. Her eyes widen slightly, then she composes herself, saying something to her date before making her way in our direction.

“Moment of truth,” I murmur to Dean.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures me, his hand steady at my back.

Daphne reaches us, her smile polite if not entirely comfortable. “Nora. Dean. Nice to see you both.”

“You too,” I say, willing my voice to sound natural. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” She gestures vaguely to our obvious couplehood. “So… this is happening, then? Officially?”

I glance at Dean, drawing strength from his calm presence. “Yes. It is.”

She nods, processing this. “Good. That’s… good.”

An awkward silence stretches between us, years of friendship suddenly reduced to stilted pleasantries.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Daphne says finally. “For both of you. The Archer grants.”

“Thank you,” Dean says. “We were surprised.”

“I wasn’t.” Something genuine breaks through her careful expression. “You’re both brilliant. They’d have been idiots not to recognize that.”

The simple acknowledgment, freely given despite everything, makes my throat tighten unexpectedly. “Daphne—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts, her voice softening. “Really. This is still… an adjustment. But I meant what I said before. You two make sense together.”

Dean’s hand tightens slightly on my waist. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Well.” She glances back at her date, who’s watching with curious interest. “I should get back to Michael. But maybe… coffee sometime? When things feel less weird?”

“I’d like that,” I say, meaning it.

She nods, hesitates like she might say more, then offers a small smile before walking away.

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “That wasn’t as bad as I feared.”

“Told you.” Dean’s thumb traces small circles against my back. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I look up at him, struck by how steady he is, how certain. “Better than okay, actually.”

His smile warms me to my core. “Want to get out of here?”

“What about the rest of the exhibition? There’s still the neural imaging section we haven’t seen.”

Dean leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “It’ll be here tomorrow. Right now, I’d rather take you home.”

The simple statement sends heat spiraling through me. “Home?”

“My apartment,” he clarifies, though something in his expression suggests the distinction is becoming less important. “Unless you’d rather stay?”

It takes me only half a second to reach my conclusion.

“Take me home,” I say.

As we make our way toward the exit, his hand firmly in mine, I’m struck by how natural this feels—being with Dean publicly, not hiding, not calculating, just existing together in the same space.

The equation of us, balanced at last.

Not through careful manipulation of variables or controlled conditions, but through the simple truth we’ve both finally accepted: some elements just belong together, regardless of external factors.