He breathes, like exhales really fucking hard, like that’s the first time he’s breathed since we stepped out. We’ve been walking for like thirty seconds. I stop, and tug his hand so he stops, too.
“Hey. Breathe.” I don’t like the way my chest feels at knowing that he’s so wound up from this. “It’s not worth it if it makes you feel this way.” I wiggle my fingers to break free but he holds me tighter, and we’re walking again, and he’s breathing now.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He nods and flashes me a smile that makes me snort out laughter.
“Okay, that smile saysI’m not fine and I’m thirty seconds away from needing a paperbag or a stretcher, or maybe both.” I hope neither, but Cade keeps me on my toes. Because now he’s just smirking at me, and all the red from his cheeks is gone.
“I’m fine,” he repeats, looking handsome as ever with a crooked, satisfied grin, nudging his glasses up. Those slutty little glasses. “I had a touch of anxiety but it passed. I’m okay.”
He’s being honest. There’s so much sincerity in his eyes.
“Good.”
We keep walking, but we parked so far away today. We wanted to enjoy a long walk together, and now, I just wish we were home. But I have a great conversation starter.
Once we break away from the last pack of students and are left shuffling through the gravel of the worst parking lot on campus, I nudge his hand back into mine. He let go somewhere around minute seven, but I am proud of him, and here for however far he wants to go.
“Mm,” he smiles, that throaty noise making my belly pinch, desire coiling tight. God, he’s so fucking cute. “I like this.” He squeezes. “I’m sorry I let go earlier, I–”
“It’s okay.” I squeeze his hand. “Hey, I was thinking. Maybe we go to the symposium. Together. You know. Like, so Dr. Pratt and everyone knows. And then we don’t have to have any awkward conversations.”
He pales a little, and sickness burns at the back of my throat and nose, thinking that maybe he doesn’t want people to know. So he held my hand today, sure, but he did let go. He is hesitating, and I have no hesitation when it comes to him, and wanting him.
A grin breaks out over his face. “I wanted to ask you, but I was kind of… freaking out.” He lets out a lungful, and his lungful alleviates me of the last thirty seconds of doubt. “Thank you for asking me. I had a moment of utter guilt, like, you know,” he nudges his glasses up, his color still a little off, like he still doesn’t feel quite right.
“What?”
“I should’ve asked you. You’re doing all the heavy lifting here, and I recognize it.” He stops us, two feet from the car. His hand is sliding through my hair, thumb on my cheek, his lips on mine, in a matter of seconds. It’s hot and wet, and only lasts a handful of seconds, but it’s fuckinggreat. “Thanks for asking. And…. That’s a yes, if you couldn’t tell.” His grin makes my heart speed up so fast I can hardly breathe, and little tiny bumps spread over my skin. Everywhere. Tiny tingly little bumps that make me ache down to my bones for that man in the glasses. My man in the glasses.
“Good.”
We grade papers with our feet tangled, learning how to get work done at home, without mauling one another. Learning how to coexist, as if we have a future ahead.
I fucking hope we do.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Cade
The airin the main lecture hall hangs thick and humid, the kind of oppressive Thursday afternoon heat that clings to the skin like pollution and grime. It’s disgusting, and I hate it. Even with the air conditioning rattling on low, sweat is still crowding the nape of my neck, beneath my collar. I sit in the back, half-hidden in the shadows, nursing a lukewarm coffee that tastes more like regret than caffeine. My notebook rests open on the table, blue pen poised, but the pages remain mostly blank. I’m pretending to take notes. Pretending to focus on the symposium’s lineup. Pretending that my entire world hasn’t narrowed to the man seated in the front row.
Noah.
He looks unfairly composed in his charcoal suit, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders as he leansforward slightly, engaged. Every so often he glances back toward me with that secret, heated smile we’ve perfected over the past weeks—the one that sayslater,I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.It usually settles the restless thing in my chest. Today, it barely touches the edges of my nerves.
The symposium has been a whirlwind so far. Panels on narrative theory, queer subtext in modern fiction, the ethics of literary adaptation. We arrived together this morning, both of us still rattled by it suddenly being a week earlier than expected, our hands finding their way to each other here and there. Over the center console. Walking up. In the hall. My heart goes electric when we touch. I feel like my lungs are on fire. When he smiles at me, it feels so good I think I couldactuallydie.
My chest literally aches so good, I think it could explode from it. It’s an unreal feeling.
Noah gets onstage and talks for two minutes. He is perfect, and my eyes burn the entire time. And I’m beyond grateful my speech was cut, because it allowed me to focus strictly on him.
After Noah is the keynote. A surprise addition, the program said. I don’t know how there could be a surprise since every speaker has to be approved by the department. It’s a closed loop. I stroke a hand through my hair and sigh, crossing and uncrossing my legs, suddenly aware of pressure in my groin. I can’t even watch Noah talk without getting hard now. It’s… I’m obsessed. Truly. It’s unsettling that it doesn’t scare me. It’s scary how much I want it.
The lights dim slightly as Dr. Pratt steps to the podium, his voice booming through the speakers. “Please welcome oursurprisekeynote speaker, bestselling author and faculty affiliate, Dr. Eli Morton.”
Noah’s body tenses as he makes his way back to me. He had to sit up front before his speech, but thankfully he’s at my table, along with a few of the other speakers.
