Page 40

Balanced Equation

Nora

“Dr. Shaw,” Dean’s voice echoes from the kitchen. “Your daughter has something to show you.”

I glance up from my laptop, where I’ve been revising grant proposals for the past three hours. My eyes are dry, my back stiff, and my brain is dangerously close to calculating the exact number of caffeine molecules required to finish this work tonight.

Spoiler: The limit does not exist.

“Coming,” I call back, saving my document before closing the laptop.

Our apartment is bigger than Dean’s old campus place—actual separate rooms, thank God—but still modest by most standards. We prioritized location over space, wanting to be within walking distance of both the university research center where I work and the adaptive sports complex where Dean coaches.

When I enter the kitchen, I find my husband—still unreasonably attractive after five years together—holding our eighteen-month-old daughter, Emma. Both of them are covered in what appears to be puréed carrots.

“What happened here?” I ask, unable to suppress my smile.

“Your daughter,” Dean says with mock seriousness, “has discovered centrifugal force.”

Emma grins at me, orange mush decorating her dark curls, her gray eyes—identical to her father’s—sparkling with mischief.

“ My daughter?” I counter, reaching for a dishcloth. “Pretty sure she’s yours when she’s creating chaos.”

“The experiment had a clear hypothesis and methodology,” Dean argues, holding Emma out for cleaning. “That’s all you, Dr. Shaw.”

I take our daughter, wiping ineffectively at the orange disaster zone. “And what hypothesis was that?”

“If I spin the spoon fast enough, the carrots will defy gravity.” He demonstrates the motion, spattering more orange across the counter. “She was right, by the way.”

“Of course she was,” I sigh, pressing a kiss to Emma’s sticky forehead. “Carter women are always right. Isn’t that so, baby girl?”

Emma babbles something that sounds suspiciously like “right!” though I’m probably giving her too much credit.

Dean moves behind me, arms encircling both of us. “Shaw-Carter women,” he corrects, his lips brushing my ear. “And yes, terrifyingly so.”

I lean back against him, absorbing his warmth and solidity. Even after all this time, all we’ve built together, there’s still something about Dean’s presence that centers me—the steady counterbalance to my analytical overthinking.

“How’s the grant proposal?” he asks, taking Emma back so I can wash my hands.

“Getting there. Wexler thinks we have a good shot at the funding.” I scrub orange gunk from under my fingernails. “How was practice?”

Dean’s expression brightens the way it always does when discussing his adaptive hockey team. “Good. Great, actually. Jason tried the new ankle joint prototype today—the range of motion is incredible. He scored twice.”

Pride warms my chest. Dean’s work with the adaptive team has become so much more than just coaching. His prosthetic designs—specifically engineered for ice sports—have changed lives, just like he always wanted. The patent for his dynamic ankle joint system has brought offers from major medical companies, but he’s turned them down, preferring to work directly with the athletes who use his designs.

“The university lab wants to do some motion capture analysis,” I tell him, remembering the email I’d received earlier. “They’re interested in collaborative research between my department and your program.”

“Look at us,” Dean says with a smile. “Academic power couple.”

“Is that what we are?” I laugh, taking Emma back. “Because right now we look more like victims of a carrot explosion.”

“Speaking of explosions,” Dean says, checking his watch, “we have approximately twenty minutes before your mom and stepdad arrive.”

I freeze, horror washing over me. “That’s tonight? I thought they were coming tomorrow!”

“Nope. Tonight at seven.” Dean looks far too calm for someone whose in-laws are arriving imminently. “I already changed the sheets in the guest room and picked up wine.”

“The apartment’s a mess. I’m covered in baby food. I haven’t showered since—” I stop, narrowing my eyes at his suspiciously composed expression. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “They’re coming tomorrow night. But your panic face is still my favorite after all these years.”

I swat his arm, adjusting Emma on my hip. “You’re evil.”

“Calculated risk,” he counters, stealing a quick kiss. “I knew the potential reward outweighed the danger.”

“The reward being?”

“Getting you away from that laptop for the evening.” He takes Emma from me again, settling her against his broad shoulder where she immediately begins to doze, carrot disaster notwithstanding. “You’ve been working for nine hours straight. Family time.”

The gentle command—because it is a command, for all its softness—sends a familiar warmth through me. Dean has never stopped being… Dean. The years and responsibilities haven’t diminished that core of controlled authority that drew me to him in the first place.

If anything, fatherhood has intensified it—the protective instinct, the steady presence, the occasional order delivered in that quiet voice that still makes my pulse skip.

“I need to finish the proposal,” I protest, but there’s no real conviction behind it.

“It’ll be there tomorrow.” He transfers our now-sleeping daughter to my arms. “Go put her down for her nap. Then it’s your turn.”

“My turn for a nap?” I ask, already moving toward Emma’s room.

Dean’s smile takes on a familiar edge that sends heat pooling low in my stomach. “Not exactly.”

Fifteen minutes later, after getting Emma settled in her crib, I’m lying on our bed while Dean methodically removes my clothes.

“This doesn’t solve the carrot situation,” I point out as he unbuttons my blouse with practiced efficiency.

“Shower later,” he says, pushing the fabric from my shoulders. “This first.”

Five years together, and he can still reduce me to incoherence with nothing but his hands and that commanding tone. Motherhood, career advancement, adult responsibilities—none of it has dulled this connection between us. If anything, the stolen moments are more precious now, more intense for their relative rarity.

“You’ve been in your head all day,” Dean murmurs, trailing kisses down my stomach. “Time to let go.”

It’s not a suggestion. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation as his mouth moves lower. The mental to-do lists, research concerns, and domestic logistics that constantly cycle through my brain begin to recede, replaced by the immediate physical reality of Dean’s touch.

This has always been his gift—the ability to pull me out of my analytical mind and into the present moment. To make me stop calculating, stop planning, stop trying to control every variable.

“That’s it,” he says approvingly as I arch beneath him. “Right here with me now.”

Later, when we’re both sated and I’m curled against his side, I trace patterns on his chest, following the familiar contours of muscle.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his fingers drawing lazy circles on my bare shoulder.

“The statistical improbability of us,” I answer truthfully. “All the variables that had to align perfectly. If my advisor hadn’t assigned me to tutor you. If Daphne hadn’t broken up with you. If you hadn’t been so infuriatingly controlled that I needed to see what would happen if you lost that control…”

Dean laughs softly, the sound rumbling beneath my ear. “You make it sound like a scientific anomaly. Maybe some things are just meant to be.”

“Says the man who once counted the minutes since he’d last touched me.”

“Seven days, thirteen hours, and twenty-two minutes,” he recites from memory, making me smile. “I stand by my methods.”

The baby monitor on the nightstand crackles with Emma’s soft snores. Outside, the late afternoon sun slants through the blinds, painting stripes across our tangled limbs. In the distance, I can hear the university bell tower chiming the hour.

“Do you ever wonder,” I ask, “what would have happened if I hadn’t let you tie my wrists with those hockey laces that day in the study room?”

Dean’s arm tightens around me. “No.”

“No?” I prop myself up to look at him.

“No,” he repeats, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture that has become so familiar it feels like a part of me. “Because even if that hadn’t happened then, something else would have. Different variables, same result.”

“That’s very unscientific,” I point out.

“Maybe.” He smiles, that rare full smile that still makes my heart skip. “Or maybe it’s just a different kind of equation. One with only one possible solution.”

“Us,” I supply.

“Us,” he agrees. “No matter what.”

The baby monitor crackles again, this time with Emma’s awakening babbles. Our brief stolen moment is ending, reality beckoning with dirty dishes, bath time routines, and the perpetual cycle of domestic life.

But as Dean kisses me once more before we rise to face the chaos, I’m struck by the perfect accuracy of his assessment.

Turns out we’re the simplest equation of all—Dean plus Nora equals everything.

* * *

Need some more college hockey romance? Flip to the next page for more from Reese Calloway! Including the first chapter of an extra spicy “Why Choose” hockey romance, WELL THAT HAPPENED .