Page 8

Calculated Risks

Dean

Mercer Hall looks exactly like what it is—a concrete box designed for maximum occupancy, minimum comfort, and zero personality. I’ve been here before, mostly for parties back in freshman year, but I’ve never gone past the common rooms.

I text Nora when I reach the front entrance. Here.

Her reply comes a few seconds later. Coming down.

It’s 7:28. I’m early again. Always am.

I wait in the small lobby area, awkwardly aware of the resident assistant watching me from behind the front desk. There’s something surreal about standing here, waiting to go up to Nora’s room. It’s like I’m crossing some invisible line I’ve been circling for weeks.

The elevator doors slide open, and there she is.

Nora looks different outside of class. More relaxed, maybe. Her hair is down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She’s wearing a loose gray sweater, leggings, and wool socks. No shoes. It’s such a small thing, but it catches me off guard—seeing her in comfortable clothes, slightly rumpled, like she’s been curled up studying for hours.

“Hey,” she says, holding the elevator door. “Come on up.”

I follow her inside, suddenly aware of how much space I take up in the small elevator. We stand on opposite sides, an arm’s length between us. I can smell her shampoo—something clean and herbal.

“Sadie’s at her sister’s for the night,” she says as the elevator starts moving. “So we don’t have to worry about distractions.”

My brain unhelpfully fixates on “for the night,” as if there’s any universe where that matters. I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Great.”

We reach the third floor, and I follow her down the narrow hallway. Her dorm room is at the end—342, just like she said. She unlocks the door and steps inside, gesturing for me to follow.

The room is small, as expected, but surprisingly neat. Bunk beds on one wall, desks on the other, a narrow strip of floor between them. String lights cast a soft glow over everything. One side—presumably Sadie’s—is decorated with photos, concert tickets, and what looks like a pride flag. The other side is more minimal: carefully organized books, a small plant, and a clean cork board with color-coded notes.

“You can sit wherever,” Nora says, closing the door behind us. “Desk chair, floor, my bed—whatever

works.”She says it casually, but something tightens in my chest at the mention of her bed.

I think about pushing her down onto it.

I think about the fact that I have a condom in my wallet.

Fucking focus, Dean. I’m not going to need a condom.

I opt for the desk chair, pulling it out slightly. “This is fine.”

She nods and sits cross-legged on her bed, pulling her laptop onto her knees. “I’ve been working on the methodology section. Did you get my email?”

“Yeah, I read it.” I unzip my backpack, retrieving my own laptop. “I added some notes on physiological markers we could track.”

For the first ten minutes, it’s easy. We fall into the familiar rhythm of academic discussion—clean, professional, focused. But then she leans forward to look at something on my screen, and her hair brushes my arm. I catch the faint scent of something floral, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of how close we are. Of the fact that we’re alone in her bedroom. Of how her bed is right there.

My balls feel heavy.

I clear my throat. “So for the experimental design, I was thinking we could use a competitive task that feels high-stakes but is actually controlled for difficulty.”

“Like what?” she asks, looking up from her notes.

“Maybe a timed puzzle task, but we manipulate the feedback. Tell half the participants they’re performing poorly compared to others, even if they’re not.”

She tilts her head, considering. “That could work. We’d need to be careful about the debrief, though. Make sure no one leaves feeling like they failed.”

“We could frame it as measuring different types of problem-solving approaches, not success rates,” I suggest. “That way, there’s no ‘wrong’ way to do it.”

Nora nods, a small smile touching her lips. “I like that. Careful but effective.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, we just look at each other. I’m struck again by how different she seems in this setting—less guarded, more at ease. Her lips are slightly parted. Her hair is loose and wavy.

“How did you get interested in prosthetics?” she asks suddenly. “I mean, beyond what you told me about your friend.”

The question catches me off guard. Most people don’t ask for details. They hear “tragic backstory” and politely back away.

“After Jesse’s accident,” I say, keeping my voice even, “I spent a lot of time at the rehab center with him. I watched him struggle with the prosthetic they gave him. It was… basic. Functional, but not designed for someone who used to be an athlete.”

I pause, not sure how much to share. Nora waits, her expression open, interested. Not pitying.

“He couldn’t play hockey anymore,” I continue. “But that wasn’t just about losing the sport. It was about losing his identity. Who he was. The prosthetics available were designed for walking, standing, sitting. Not for quick lateral movements, not for balance on ice, not for anything that felt like him .”

I realize I’m gripping the edge of the desk and consciously relax my hand. “I thought—if the technology was better, more responsive, more adapted to different activities—maybe it wouldn’t feel like such a complete loss.”

“That’s why you changed your major,” she says. It’s not a question.

I nod. “I was pre-med originally. I thought I’d be a sports medicine doctor. But after Jesse… I realized engineering might let me actually build solutions, not just treat problems after they happen.”

“What happened to him?” she asks softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

I look down at my hands. I don’t talk about this. Ever. Not even with Gavin, not fully. But something about the quiet safety of this room, the soft light, the genuine interest in her eyes, makes me want to.

“He killed himself,” I say, the words dropping like stones. “Two years after the accident. He said he couldn’t be half the person he used to be.”

Nora’s breath catches. “Dean, I’m so sorry.” The pain in her eyes is more than I expected. She looks like she could cry.

I swallow and take a deep breath. “He was my best friend. Since we were kids.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “I was supposed to be with him that night—the night of the accident. But I had a date, so I bailed. He drove alone, took a curve too fast on an icy road. The car flipped.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says immediately.

I smile tightly. “Logically, I know that. Emotionally… I’m still working on it.”

There’s a long silence. Not uncomfortable, just heavy with things unsaid. I expect her to offer some platitude, to change the subject back to safer territory.

Instead, she says, “My dad left when I was twelve. No warning, no explanation. Just… gone.”

I look up, surprised. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “My mom fell apart. Couldn’t function. I basically ran the household for years—bills, groceries, making sure she ate, took her meds. She’d have these episodes where she’d just… disappear mentally. Check out.”

“That’s a lot for a kid to handle,” I say quietly.

“It was what it was.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but I can hear the effort it takes. “I got really good at being self-sufficient. At not needing anyone. At planning for every contingency.”

Something clicks into place for me—her meticulous organization, her intense focus, her reluctance to let go of control. She’s been holding everything together for so long; it’s become who she is.

“Is that why you’re studying neuropsychology?” I ask. “To understand what happened to her?”

Nora looks surprised, then thoughtful. “Maybe. Partly. I think I just wanted to understand why people do what they do. Why they leave. Why they stay. Why they break.”

Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the air between us. A recognition. We’re both carrying ghosts. Both shaped by losses we couldn’t control. Both finding purpose in what broke us.

“I guess we all have our damage,” she says softly.

“I guess we do.”

She looks down at her laptop, but I can tell she’s not really seeing it. Her fingers trace absent patterns on the keyboard.

“Thank you,” I say. “For telling me that.”

She glances up. “Thank you for telling me about Jesse.”

There’s another silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. Like we’ve both set down something heavy we’ve been carrying.

I should refocus on the project. That’s why I’m here. But I can’t stop looking at her—the curve of her mouth, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. The curve of her tits against the sweater.

“What?” she asks, catching me staring.

“Nothing,” I say automatically. Then, because something about this moment feels too honest for deflection: “I just like looking at you.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “Oh.”

“Does that bother you?” I ask, my voice lower than I intended.

She hesitates, then shakes her head slowly. “No.”

My heart rate kicks up. I should say something neutral, something safe. Instead, I hear myself ask, “What did Daphne tell you? Exactly?”

Nora’s eyes widen slightly. “What?”

“In the tutoring center,” I clarify. “You said you heard her talking about me. About why we broke up. I want to know what she said.”

I’m playing with fire. I know it. But I can’t stop myself.

Nora swallows, her throat working. “She said… that you were intense. That you like control. That you—” she pauses, searching for words “—that you give orders. In bed.”

Her voice gets quieter on the last part, but she doesn’t look away.

“And that made you curious,” I say, not a question.

She nods, the movement almost imperceptible.

“Why?” I ask, even though I should stop, should change the subject, should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Nora takes a deep breath. “Because I’ve never been with someone who wanted…” she hesitates, searching for the right words, “…a power dynamic like that. Someone who would just let me shut my brain off and feel.” Her voice gets quieter, but her eyes stay locked on mine. “And I started to wonder what it would be like.”

The admission hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning. And my cock twitches in my pants.

I lean forward slightly. “And you think I could give you that?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Could you?”

I’m looking at her mouth now, can’t help it. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing shallow. I want to taste her so badly it’s a physical ache.

“Yes,” I say, my voice rough. “I would.”

She makes a small sound, almost inaudible. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up.

I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life.

But before I can move, there’s a loud bang in the hallway, followed by a swell of laughter. The sound of a group of students returning from dinner, oblivious to the moment they’ve just interrupted.

The spell breaks. Nora blinks, looking away. I lean back in the chair, putting space between us.

“We should, um,” she gestures to her laptop, “probably get back to the project.”

“Right,” I agree, even as every cell in my body screams in protest. “The project.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear again, her movements slightly jerky now. “So, for the experimental design…”

We spend the next hour working on our proposal, methodically avoiding any hint of what just passed between us. We’re professional, focused, productive. On the surface, nothing has changed.

But everything has.

Because now I know that Nora Shaw wants exactly what I want to give her. Now I know that beneath her careful control is a hunger that matches my own. Now I know that she sees my intensity not as a flaw, but as a promise.

And I have no idea what to do about it.

When I finally leave her room at 9:45, our project outline is complete, our bibliography formatted, our timeline established. Everything is neat, organized, and accounted for.

Except for the unspoken thing between us.

The thing neither of us is brave enough to name.

Yet.