I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the door before the quiet between us can stretch uncomfortably. My hand is on the knob when Noah speaks again, softer this time.
“Cade.”
I pause but don’t turn.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “you’re allowed to want things. Even the ones that don’t fit neatly into the rules.”
My pulse kicks hard. I open the door without answering, step into the hallway, and let it swing shut behind me. The corridor smells like lemon polish and old book spines, familiar and safe. My shoes echo on the linoleum as I walk, but my mind stays back in that office, replaying the low timbre of his voice, the way he said my name.
I push through the double doors into the quad. Sunlight hits my face, warm and bright, full of promise. Students are sprawled on the grass with laptops and oversized coffee tumblers. Somewhere a speaker plays soft indie folk music. All normal Tuesday things. I head toward the gym, shoulders tight, telling myself the same thing I always do.
Rules keep me grounded.
But for the first time in five years, the lie tastes like ash.
CHAPTER
TWO
NOAH
Five yearsago if you asked me what makes me tick, I’d have a list as long as my leg. But today, after sharing a shoebox of an office with Cade Mercer, if you asked me again? My list would look very different.
Uptightness.
Color-coded spreadsheets.
Neatly arranged stacks.
Pressed undershirts.
Sweater vests.
Mouthwash.
Glasses.
Slutty little fucking glasses.
Everything that is Cade Mercer. That’s what’s hot to me now. The way he gently taps the neck of his shirt to see if he hung his glasses there, how his eyes neverleave his work when I’ve got a student in the office for a consultation, how he’s never even dismissed a lecture even a moment too soon. He’s driving me fucking insane in ways I’ve never been stirred.
Rules are whatever. I follow the speed limit, I hold the door for people entering places after me, and I don’t litter. But the way Cade honors and upholds every damn rule so neurotically, I don’t know. It’s scrambled my brain, and just in the last year I’ve found myself eager to get back to our shared space, just to… I don’t know. Observe the way he dutifully always does the right thing?
I don’t even know, but what started as a little crush has manifested into something far more, something complicated and private, mostly because that’s Cade—complicated and private. It only makes sense that what I feel for him are those things, too.
I’m still riding the quiet high from my last advising session when the knock comes again, sharp and hopeful, the kind that always precedes a needy student slipping in. I glance up from the stack of essays I’m pretending to grade and catch Cade already watching me. He’s at his desk, eyes are steady, that cool blue-gray that never quite gives anything away. He does this sometimes–forgets that he doesn’t enjoy being caught listening and watching. But still, every so often I catch him listening to me talk to students like he’s cataloging every word.
“Come in,” I call. The door opens wider and in walks Lauren Beckett, a laptop pressed to her chest. She’s one of the good ones, graduating with honors, sharp as hell onpostcolonial lit (I helped her with her paper), and carrying the kind of tired smile that says she’s been working full time in addition to this. She heads straight for Cade’s desk.
“Professor Mercer?” Her voice lifts at the end, hopeful. “Got a second?”
Cade straightens, polite as ever. “Of course, Lauren. Come in.”
I lower my pen but don’t look away. I watch the way he angles his body toward her, both open and professional, no hint of the discomfort I know he feels when anyone gets too close. He’s good at this part. Too good. The kind of good that makes my chest ache because I’ve spent five years memorizing every micro-expression he thinks he hides.
Lauren shifts her weight, fingers twisting in the soft fabric of her muted gray sweater.“I just wanted to thank you again for the recommendation letter. The grad program at Long Beach wrote back—they’re flying me out for an interview next month.”
“That’s fantastic,” he tells her, clearly proud. “You earned it. Your paper on sociopolitical commentary in dystopian fiction was exceptional.”
