Chapter 26
Gabrielle
Iarrived to Cal’s class—that is, Dr. Hawthorne’s class—early, the door creaking shut behind me as I slipped into the empty lecture hall.
Fluorescent lights bathed everything in clinical white, harsh against the too-early sky outside.
I slid into my usual seat by the window, cracked open my notebook, and tried to corral my thoughts.
Formulas and diagrams blurred in my mind like abstract art. I rubbed my eyes, willing myself to focus. The problem set loomed, but my concentration was a fragile thread, easily snapped by the memory of Cal’s voice, lingering in my ear long after he’d had to go.
Three girls burst through the door, their chatter ricocheting off the walls. Sloane Cartwright and her usual crowd—with freshly minted pink sorority jerseys and full-volume energy—claimed seats a few rows behind me.
“I swear, this man is literally the only reason I’ll take an eight a.m. class,” one girl groaned. “He’s stupid hot. Like, criminal levels of hot.”
Heat surged up my neck. My pen slipped, leaving a jagged mark in the margin.
“Nope,” Sloane replied, her tone flat. “Total hard-ass.”
Another girl cackled. “That’s the whole appeal. Tell me he doesn’t give serious ‘ruin your GPA and your life’ energy.”
“I’m sorry,” the first one chimed in. “That voice? That accent? He could read the syllabus, and I’d still need a minute.”
I didn’t turn around, but every syllable crawled down my spine.
“I’m still fucking pissed he didn’t let me make up that quiz,” Sloane muttered.
“It’s one quiz,” the other said. “If it tanks your grade, just have your dad call. Isn’t he, like, on the Board of Trustees or something?”
“Yeah, but it’s the principle.”
More students filtered in, jostling the silence with the dull thud of backpacks and the rustle of notebooks.
The girls behind me kept up their chatter, but I tuned them out as best I could, every nerve strung tight as I waited for Cal to arrive.
He’d probably slip in right at eight and step up to the lectern like nothing had changed.
Maybe for him, it hadn’t. Maybe he could compartmentalize better than I could.
The door swung open, and there he was.
Everything inside me tipped sideways as he crossed the room. His gaze fell briefly on me, then moved away so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it. His face gave away nothing.
He set his bag down, connected his laptop, pulled up his slides, and checked his watch.
Eight o’clock.
“Good morning,” he said, scanning the rows with that practiced gaze, never lingering long enough on me for anyone to notice. “If you’ve looked ahead,” he said in that steady, deliberate way I loved, “you’ll notice we’re taking a brief detour from circuits to cover basic magnetism. Any idea why?”
Silence. He paused, scanning for volunteers.
“Perhaps I should let you wake up a bit.” He clicked forward a slide. “Up to this point, we’ve looked at direct current. But to understand alternating current—the electricity you get when you plug something into the wall—you need to understand magnetic fields.”
He moved through the next few slides, stopping occasionally to elaborate. I followed his voice with a hunger I couldn’t suppress, scribbling notes and wishing the time would slow.
At one point, he paused, glancing meaningfully in my direction. “Can anyone tell me how a microwave works?”
I hesitated, unsure whether to answer.
Someone in the front row rattled off a textbook response. “It converts electric energy into microwaves, which make the water molecules vibrate and heat up.”
“That’s a good start,” Cal said, nodding toward him. “Now—can anyone tell me why it’s a bad idea to heat water in the microwave?” Another glance my way. “Say, in an attempt to make tea.”
I sank down in my seat, burning and breathless, and hated how much I loved him for it.
So…calling me out in front of the entire class? Bold move, Dr. Hawthorne.
I did no such thing. But at least you won’t be microwaving water again, Miss Clark.
I smiled, grateful that I was alone and no longer had to school my expressions. My phone buzzed again.
How was calculus?
My pulse skipped.
Numbing, but I made it through. Now I’m studying. Or pretending to.
Psych at 1?
Good memory.
I’m known for that, love. Where are you?
I glanced around at the chaotic array of tables, chairs, crates, and furniture covered in tarps. Beneath the Page College chapel lay the remnants of a Cold War-era fallout shelter. Now used mostly for storage and accessible only to those who knew how to find it, it was my study spot of choice.
Secluded study spot. Hardly anyone knows it’s here. I’m all alone…
A secret lair… Should I be concerned or intrigued?
I hovered over the screen, thumb ghosting the keyboard. It was reckless. A terrible idea. But I typed it anyway.
If you’re free…you could join me…
I swallowed hard and hit send.
His reply came faster than I expected.
You’re dangerously persuasive when you shouldn’t be. Send me a pin. I’m already walking.
I left my things and made my way upstairs to meet him. The cramped storage room behind the chapel was overrun and chaotic—an echo of the shelter below. I wondered if this was too reckless. If he’d turn back once he saw my pin drop.
But a moment later, the door creaked open, and there he was.
Longing spiked through me. He shut the door quietly, his gaze sweeping the room—then locking with mine, burning through every restraint I’d tried to build.
“Covert enough for you?” I asked, voice low as I stepped toward him. Close enough to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes at my audacity. Close enough for my breath to catch at his nearness.
“The chapel? I’d say sacrilegious, not covert,” Cal mused, still watching me in that way that made everything else go dim.
We both glanced at the door, as if expecting someone to burst through. But there were no footsteps. No voices nearby. Just dust motes drifting through shafts of light from high windows.
“No, not the chapel. I’m not insane.” I reached for his hand and felt him hesitate, tugged by propriety. “Under the chapel. The old fallout shelter.”
His posture eased, and he let me lead him down into the stairwell, into the hush and shadows where nothing else mattered but this. The door clanged shut above us. With each step, we left the world behind—one that demanded restraint and reason.
“I thought this place was a myth,” he whispered.
“Nope. It was built during the Cold War in case of a nuclear strike. I’ve heard there are three more around campus, maybe even tunnels, but they might be sealed off.”
He tightened his hand around mine—warm and solid, everything I needed it to be. The space opened around us, vast and abandoned. My heart kept a wild rhythm as we reached the bottom landing.
Cal stopped short, looking around the space as if grounding himself in its secrecy. “You weren’t joking,” he said softly.
I squeezed his hand and pulled him closer. The quiet down here was different—expectant, suspended in time like the rest of the world had vanished aboveground. I slipped my hands around his waist.
His breath was a low exhale against my hair, relief and want tangled together.
“You really shouldn’t have called me out like that in class,” I murmured into his shirt.
He drew back just enough to look at me, his gaze tracing the curve of my jaw. “That was nothing.” His smile was slow, a promise. “You should see what I’ll do next time.”
Heat rose in my cheeks as he tilted my chin, his mouth soft on mine.
It was tentative at first—an almost-question—but I answered before it could form, closing the distance.
He kissed me harder, restraint giving way to something deeper and more dangerous.
Every hesitation—every careful line we’d drawn—dissolved in the dark.
No rules here. No roles. Just us and the quiet madness of wanting what we shouldn’t.
Cal gathered me to him like he never meant to let go and pressed me back against a stack of crates. He slipped his jacket from his shoulders, tossing it somewhere behind him.
“You’re impossible,” I whispered.
He smiled against my skin, his hands at the hem of my sweater, then warm beneath it.
“And you’re meant to be studying.”
I worked quickly to loosen his tie and undo his top few buttons.
He watched me as if every movement burned.
I tugged his shirt free from his waistband and slid my hands beneath—finally—pressing against smooth, warm skin and the taut muscles of his abdomen.
He shuddered at my touch, each breath a quiet burn against my neck.
I splayed my fingers across his chest, felt his heartbeat—wild, a perfect match for mine.
He caught my wrist as if to steady himself, then released it just as quickly, like his own restraint had surprised him.
“Gabrielle,” he said, voice rough-edged and urgent.
I silenced him with another kiss, tugging him close until there was no space left between us. We were frantic now, heat climbing with every touch. He tangled his hands in my hair, then slid them down my back to grip me tighter. The world spun, free-falling around us.
We stumbled sideways into a battered armchair and toppled over its edge.
I landed half on the floor, half tangled in Cal’s arms—laughing breathlessly at the absurdity.
At how careful we weren’t being. His weight pinned me to the cool concrete beneath a threadbare rug, and it was all I could do not to come undone.
He traced his fingers along my ribcage as he kissed me again. “I want you,” he said between kisses, “so badly.” He pulled back slightly. “I’m genuinely considering ravishing you right here in the chapel. I really am going to hell.”
I shook my head as I undid his belt. “No, you’re under the chapel. There’s a difference.”