Page 5

The First Glitch

Nora

Pain is clarifying.

That’s what I tell myself as I throw one last punch at the heavy bag, my knuckles stinging despite the wraps. The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, sweat dripping into my eyes.

“Time!” the instructor calls, and I drop my hands, sucking in air that tastes like rubber mats and desperation.

Strike class at the rec center is the only place I let myself be messy. Here, in this windowless room with pounding music and twenty other women who look like they’re exorcising demons, I don’t have to be meticulous Nora Shaw with her study plans and careful control. I can just hit things until my brain goes quiet.

“Jesus, Nora,” Sadie pants beside me, doubled over. Her pink hair—now dark with sweat—sticks to her forehead. “What did that bag ever do to you?”

I wipe my face with a towel. “Existed in my general vicinity.”

“Remind me never to do that.” She straightens up, grimacing. “I’m pretty sure my abs just sent me a death threat.”

“Your abs will thank you when we’re running from zombies in the apocalypse,” I say, unwrapping my hands. The skin beneath is red and raw. Good. I need the reminder that I’m still here. Still solid.

“So,” Sadie says as we reach the locker room, “how’s the dating wasteland? Any new disasters on the horizon?”

I snort, dropping onto a bench. “Dead on arrival. I’m not even looking anymore.”

“Liar.” She pulls her shirt over her head, unembarrassed as always. “You’re just setting impossible standards so you never have to risk it.”

“Is ‘basic respect for my thoughts’ an impossible standard now?”

“You know what I mean.” She gives me a pointed look. “You’ve been doing this since freshman year. Find something wrong with every guy, push them away before they can get close, then act surprised when you end up alone.”

“That’s not—” I start to argue, then stop myself. Maybe she’s not entirely wrong. “I just don’t see the point in wasting time on people who don’t want the same things I do.”

“And what do you want, Nora?” She asks it softly, like she’s genuinely curious.

I shrug, uncomfortable with the question. “Focus. Someone who actually pays attention. Someone who doesn’t treat intensity like it’s a disease.”

Sadie studies me for a moment, then shakes her head. “You’re scared.”

“I’m practical.”

“You’re terrified of letting anyone see the real you.” She tugs on a clean t-shirt. “Admit it—you’re afraid if someone actually saw all of you, they’d run.”

The words hit harder than they should. I busy myself with my gym bag, not looking at her. “This conversation is getting way too therapy-adjacent for a Tuesday morning.”

“Fine, deflect.” She grins, the momentary seriousness gone. “But one of these days, someone’s going to see right through your shit, Shaw. And I can’t wait to watch you panic.”

If she only knew.

Dean Carter’s face flashes in my mind—the way he looked at me yesterday in the tutoring center. The way he said Be careful what you ask for right against my ear, his voice low enough to make my skin prickle.

Like he could see right through me.

Like he already knew what I was afraid to want.

I swallow hard, pushing the thought away. “We’re going to be late for bio-psych if we don’t hurry.”

“Always the responsible one,” Sadie teases, but she grabs her bag and follows me out.

Professor Linley is already setting up when we slide into the lecture hall, two minutes before the hour. His TA is distributing handouts while students filter in, the room slowly filling with the background hum of conversations and shuffling papers.

“I hate project weeks,” Sadie mutters, slouching in her seat. “Why can’t we just take another exam?”

“Because Linley believes in ‘practical application of theoretical concepts,’” I say, mimicking his pompous tone.

She rolls her eyes. “Translation: he’s too lazy to grade tests.”

I laugh, then freeze as I spot a familiar figure entering the lecture hall. Dean. I’d forgotten he was in this class—he always sits in the back, and I’m always near the front. Our paths don’t usually cross.

But today, as if he can sense me watching, his eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t smile, just holds my gaze for a beat too long before taking his usual seat.

My pulse kicks up, and I force myself to look away. This is ridiculous. I’ve shared classes with him for two years. There’s no reason for this sudden awareness, this strange gravity between us.

Except now I know things about him I didn’t before. Things that make me see him differently.

He doesn’t just want sex. He wants surrender.

Professor Linley clears his throat, calling the class to attention. “Good morning, everyone. Today we’re starting the partner projects I mentioned last week. You’ll be working in pairs to design and conduct a small-scale observational study based on the cognitive mechanisms we’ve been discussing.”

Sadie leans over to whisper, “Dibs on being your partner.”

“And to ensure diversity of perspective,” Linley continues, “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning partnerships based on complementary academic backgrounds.”

A collective groan ripples through the room. Sadie drops her head to the desk with a quiet thud.

Linley begins reading names from his list, pairing psychology majors with students from other disciplines. I half-listen, jotting down ideas for the project, until—

“Nora Shaw and Dean Carter.”

My pen freezes against the paper. Slowly, I turn to look across the room. Dean is already watching me, his expression unreadable.

“Your partner assignments are final,” Linley says over renewed murmurs of complaint. “Take the rest of the class period to meet with your partner and begin brainstorming. Project proposals are due next Monday.”

Sadie gives me a sympathetic look as she gathers her things. “Have fun with the hockey bro,” she whispers, nodding toward Dean. “Try not to murder him.”

“No promises,” I mutter, but my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with annoyance.

Students shuffle around the room, finding their assigned partners. I stay in my seat, refusing to be the one to move. A childish power play, maybe, but I need to maintain some sense of control here.

After a moment, Dean appears beside my desk, silent and watchful. He doesn’t sit immediately, just stands there until I look up at him.

“Nora,” he says, his voice neutral.

“Dean.” I gesture to the empty seat beside me. “Looks like we’re stuck together.”

He slides into the chair, setting his notebook on the desk. “Seems that way.”

Up close, I notice things I didn’t before. The faint circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. The small scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s constantly aware of the space he occupies. Which is, well, a lot of space. He’s easily six foot two, I’d guess.

“So,” I say, forcing my voice to stay professional. “What’s your interest in biopsychology?”

“Neural feedback systems.” He meets my eyes directly. “Specifically in prosthetic applications.”

That surprises me. It’s more specific than I expected. “For your engineering focus?”

He nods. “You?”

“Decision-making and risk assessment,” I say. “How cognitive systems respond to perceived threats.”

“Fear responses,” he says, and it’s not quite a question.

“Among other things.”

There’s a short silence. I flip to a clean page in my notebook, needing something to focus on besides his unsettling gray eyes.

“We should probably establish some parameters for working together,” I say.

“Parameters.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Like rules?”

My pulse jumps at the word. “Like expectations.”

“Alright.” He leans back slightly. “What are your expectations, Nora?”

The way he says it makes me think we’re not just talking about the project anymore. I clear my throat.

“Regular meeting times. Clear division of labor. No last-minute changes.” I tap my pen against the paper. “And given our… other academic relationship, we should keep things professional.”

“Of course.” His voice is perfectly even. “Wouldn’t want to cross any lines.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Two days ago, I admitted to him that his sexual dominance made me curious, not repulsed. Now we’re pretending we can work together like nothing happened.

Cool.

I’m definitely not going to panic.

“About what I said in the tutoring center—” I begin, then stop when he raises a hand.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says quietly. “We can just focus on the project.”

But his eyes say something different. They say he hasn’t forgotten. That he’s thinking about it right now, even as he offers me an easy out.

“Fine,” I say, because it’s easier than acknowledging the tension crackling between us. “Let’s talk about the project.”

For the next forty-five minutes, we discuss potential research questions, methodologies, and theoretical frameworks. Despite everything, I’m impressed by how quickly Dean grasps concepts, how he builds on my ideas rather than dismissing them. He’s focused and articulate, asking incisive questions that push my thinking in new directions.

It’s infuriating how good we are together. Academically speaking.

By the time class ends, we’ve outlined a study examining risk perception in competitive environments—a topic that neatly bridges his interest in athletic performance and my focus on decision-making.

“We should meet again to finalize the proposal,” Dean says as we pack up our things. “My schedule’s tight with hockey, but I’m free tomorrow evening.”

“I have a tutoring shift until seven,” I say, carefully not mentioning that he’s my only assigned student.

“After that, then.” It’s not quite a question.

I hesitate, then nod. “The library will be closing early for some event.”

“My place is off-campus,” he offers. “Quiet. I had a roommate, but he moved out.”

Warning bells should be ringing. Meeting him alone, at his apartment, after dark—it’s exactly the situation I should avoid.

“I’m in the dorms—a double in Mercer Hall,” I hear myself say. “It might be easier. If that’s okay.”

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or interest.

“Your place, then,” he agrees. “Seven-thirty?”

“Seven-thirty,” I confirm, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

As I turn to leave, he says my name again.

I glance back. “Yes?”

“This doesn’t have to be complicated.” His expression is carefully neutral. “I can keep things separate if you can.”

The problem is, I’m not sure I can. Not when I feel like I have whiplash already just trying to keep up with him. Not when I wake up in the middle of the night, hot and restless, from dreams I can’t admit to anyone.

“Of course,” I say smoothly. “It’s just a project.”

Dean holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods once. “See you tomorrow, then.”

I walk away first, feeling his eyes on my back the whole time. It’s just a project, I repeat to myself.

But as I push through the lecture hall doors into the bright winter sunlight, all I can think about is him in my small dorm room. The way the space will shrink around his presence. How there will be nowhere to hide from whatever this is between us.

And the worst part?

I’m not sure I want to hide anymore.