Page 32 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

My hand stills around the plastic fork. I look at the containers again, at the neat portions and the way the vegetables are cut unevenly in a human kitchen, not pulled from catering trays. “You made this?”

Dash finally looks at me, one brow lifting slightly. “Yeah.”

I don’t know why that moves through me the way it does. Maybe because I assumed faculty lounges and takeout menus and administrative kindness, not a pan in someone’s kitchen,not enough food made with the expectation of leftovers and then deliberately portioned into a container with my name never written on it. The warmth is small, but it spreads before I can stop it, touching places I have kept cold on purpose.

I look down at the plate he sets in front of me. It is too soon for my heart to soften around another Alpha’s care. Sloane’s bite still aches in my shoulder when I sit down across from Dash.

“It smells good,” I say, because that is safer than thank you.

Dash sits across from me, leaving the corner of the table between us instead of taking the chair at my side. “It reheats fine. The vegetables get softer than I want, but that’s the price of not eating over the stove like a raccoon.”

I glance up at him, suspicious of the almost-humor, but he's already taking a bite of his own food, eyes lowered to his plate like he has no intention of watching whether I perform gratitude correctly. That makes it easier to pick up my fork. The first bite is too much and exactly enough. My body reacts with a humiliating rush of relief, stomach tightening around real food after a day of coffee and crackers and medication.

Dash gives me three bites before he speaks again. “How’s the hotel?”

“Nice.” The answer comes automatically, polished smooth by two weeks of people asking whether the university accommodations are acceptable. “It’s clean. Close enough. There’s a shuttle if I don’t want to drive, and the front desk people are very committed to calling me Doctor Monroe, which makes me feel like I’m impersonating someone with better luggage.”

“Better luggage is overrated.”

“My suitcase wheel disagrees.” I take another bite, then reach for the water he has set near my plate. “The hotel is fine. I think that’s the problem. It’s too fine to complain about and too temporary to relax in. There’s art on the walls that looks like itcame with the building, and the kitchenette has two pans, both of which feel judgmental.”

Dash listens like this is a real answer, not small talk dressed in acceptable clothing. “Have you looked at places yet?”

“A little. I opened five listings and closed all of them.” I push a grain of rice around my plate, annoyed by the confession even though it barely counts as one. “Everything wants me to decide what kind of life I’m having here. Six-month lease. Twelve-month lease. Furnished. Unfurnished. Parking included. No pets. Laundry in building. It all seems normal until I’m supposed to imagine myself inside it.”

He nods once, not with pity. “That can take time.”

“I don’t know how much time I’m supposed to need.” The words come out quieter than I mean them to, and I make myself take another bite so I don't apologize for saying them. “Everyone here has been kind. You’ve been kind. The students seem nice. One of them asked today whether office hours were for emergencies or ‘academic vibes,’ and I managed not to stare at her like she was speaking another language.”

Dash’s mouth almost curves. “That sounds like Nina. She’ll be in your office twice a week once she figures out you answer emails like a person.”

“I answer emails like someone afraid of being misunderstood.”

The almost-smile leaves his face. He doesn't ask the question waiting between us. He only reaches for the fruit container and slides it closer to the middle of the table. “That’s exhausting.”

The simplicity of it nearly cracks me more than Mara’s call did. I look down at my plate, blinking too fast, and stab a piece of roasted carrot with more force than necessary. “I’m good at exhausting.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I should dislike that he says it. Instead, something in me loosens by a single thread. “Is that your official chair assessment?”

“My official chair assessment is that you’re overprepared, underfed, and very good with students who think they’re hiding panic better than they are.” He takes a sip of water and gives me room to sit with that before he adds, “My unofficial assessment is that you don’t have to earn dinner by being impressive all day.”

My hand tightens around the fork. The words should be too much. They almost are. But Dash’s voice stays even, his body still on his side of the table, the food between us instead of his concern. He doesn’t reach across. He doesn’t soften his tone into something that would make me feel managed. He lets the sentence sit there like a chair I can choose not to take.

“I had a friend call earlier,” I say, and the shift away from myself isn't subtle. Dash accepts it anyway, which makes me trust him a fraction more. “From my old campus. She said there are whispers and paperwork and lawyers. Everyone’s been told not to talk unless it’s to the police because there’s an active investigation.”

His gaze sharpens, but he keeps his hands around his water bottle. “Has anyone official contacted you?”

“No.” I say it carefully, feeling the shape of the word before I let it go. “Not here. Not through the new number. Not through campus, unless something went somewhere I haven’t seen. Mara said no one’s talked to her either. She tried to offer information and got handed policy until she stopped being a person and became a problem.”

Dash looks toward the dark window, where the lounge reflects us back in dim shapes. “That’s a lot to carry while you’re trying to start classes.”

I almost laugh. It sits in my throat and turns into something else. “The classes might be the only part that makes sense.”

“What are you teaching tomorrow?”

“Intro ethics seminar in the morning. Literature and moral injury in the afternoon.” I stop, then huff out a tired breath because the universe has developed a cruel sense of curriculum. “I didn’t choose the schedule.”