Chapter 4 Olivia
FOUR
olivia
We step onto campus together the way we always do, side by side, in sync.
Only today, it feels different.
Maybe it’s the stark contrast between Halford, with its perfect paths and structured schedules, and the last few weeks spent in New York, where everything felt more intimate, more consuming. Maybe it’s the way the cold bites sharper here, the air clearer but heavier at the same time.
Or maybe it’s just him.
Nathaniel moves beside me all quiet confidence and magnetic pull. There’s a shift in the way he carries himself now—something restored, as though stepping back onto this campus has returned the control that had frayed at the edges in Manhattan.
I saw a different version of him there—one I don’t think he meant to show me.
Being around his family, surrounded by old memories and expectations, had unmoored him in a way I don’t think he has ever allowed himself to be in Boston.
He had been raw—not just with me, but within himself, like the act of merely existing in that house had forced him into a confrontation he wasn’t prepared for.
His brother’s absence clung to him like a shadow, one he never acknowledged outright, but it was there—in the way his jaw clenched at the mention of his name, in the way he avoided certain rooms as if they held ghosts only he could see.
He never spoke of it, never allowed himself what he considered the indulgence of mourning, only acknowledged it when the weight of it became too heavy to ignore.
And when that happened, I witnessed firsthand how it wrung him out entirely.
But here, that shadow is gone. His carefully curated mask of composure has snapped back into place with startling ease.
I felt it the moment we landed in Boston. The way his hand found the small of my back with certainty, guiding me forward like there had never been any question of where I was meant to go.
He hasn’t brought up the proposal again. But I feel the weight of it.
Just like the other offer to move in with him. A compromise—a second chance to say yes.
He hasn’t pressed me about it, but as we stepped off the plane and he guided me toward the black Mercedes waiting on the tarmac, I could hear the words he wasn’t saying.
Come back with me.
Inside the car, the gentle coaxing began. After securing my seatbelt, Nathaniel reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine as his thumb traced slow, reassuring strokes against my skin. “Are you tired, baby? You can rest on the way home.”
Home.
It wasn’t a question of where. It was a foregone conclusion.
I shifted, biting my lip. “I should probably—”
He cut me off with a squeeze of my hand, gentle but firm. “It’s late. Your dorm can wait.” A careful pause. Then, smoothly, as if it were nothing, he added, “Unless you’d prefer to sleep alone tonight?”
He didn’t say it to pressure me. He didn’t need to. The aftershocks of New York still reverberated between us—the confessions, the vulnerability, the pain he had let me see. I knew that if I insisted on going back to my dorm, it wouldn’t just be about where I slept.
It would be a refusal. A boundary set.
And I wasn’t ready to draw that line.
So, I exhaled and nodded. “Okay. Your place it is.”
Nathaniel’s relief was palpable. His fingers tightened around mine, and he lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my knuckles.
“That’s my good girl.”
I should have been unsettled by how clearly he expected this outcome. But instead, a strange warmth bloomed in my chest.
And now, here we are.
Back on campus, back in the rhythm of schedules and expectations, walking toward our first class of the new semester.
Nathaniel walks just a little closer than usual, his hand resting against the small of my back as we walk, his arm brushing my waist when we pause. There’s a new gravity behind these gestures, a silent reinforcement of something neither of us has spoken aloud.
I don’t pull away.
Before, I might have. I might have maintained a little more distance, might have subtly leaned away just enough to establish space between us. But now…
I let myself melt into him a little more. Let myself want this.
Nathaniel notices.
I catch the flicker of satisfaction in his expression, the way the corner of his mouth curls just slightly, as if my quiet acceptance is proof of something he’s always known.
“Caldwell!” someone calls, interrupting the moment.
Nathaniel turns smoothly, his hand not moving from my back as he acknowledges the speaker—a sharply dressed guy I don’t recognize. He looks like someone important, or at least someone who believes he is.
“Nathaniel, good to see you.” The guy glances at me, curiosity flickering across his features.
Nathaniel’s fingers subtly press into my spine as he responds, voice smooth. “You too, Will. Keeping busy?”
The conversation is brief, and I can’t help but notice how effortless Nathaniel is in this kind of setting. He commands attention without demanding it, his presence enough to make people take notice.
Nathaniel doesn’t introduce me.
Not because he’s embarrassed or dismissive—but because in his mind, I don’t need introducing. My role in his life is self-evident. And while part of me softens at that, another part wonders when exactly he decided that for the both of us.
He simply moves us forward, seamlessly continuing our walk as if the interaction never happened.
The looks from our peers are subtle at first—a few double-takes, glances exchanged between students in passing.
I brush it off initially.
But then, it keeps happening.
There’s an almost imperceptible shift in how people regard us.
I wonder if I’m imagining it, but the weight of Nathaniel’s presence beside me makes me hyper-aware. He doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he leans in closer.
As heads continue to turn, I realize it’s not just that we’re together—people have known that for a while now.
It’s the steady hand at my back, the way he moves like we share the same gravity, the way his nearness tells everyone I’m his.
It’s a claiming.
And what unsettles me isn’t that he does it. It’s how much I want to be claimed.
Nathaniel has, unsurprisingly, enrolled in all the same classes as me this semester, just as he did last semester.
I remember how casual he had been about the whole thing during course selection, as if his own academic interests were an afterthought. The only thing that mattered to him was ensuring that wherever I was, he would be too. It should feel suffocating, but it doesn’t.
Because, as always, Nathaniel knew. He knew what would happen before I did—how easy it would be to fall into step with him, how much simpler everything feels when he is beside me.
Perhaps it’s the benefit of being a genius—Nathaniel had enough confidence in himself to know he would excel in any subject, whether or not he cared about it. To him, the content of the class was irrelevant. I was the priority.
I walk into the lecture hall ahead of him, scanning for a seat before class starts.
A few students glance up, then quickly look away. The low buzz of conversation dips, subtle but noticeable.
But then Nathaniel walks in, and the tension doubles.
If my arrival had drawn attention, his presence amplifies it.
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t acknowledge the stares. Just moves straight toward me, lowering himself into the seat beside mine like he never considered sitting anywhere else.
Maybe that’s what they see—how effortless it looks, how inevitable it feels.
A few of our usual study partners greet us, polite but curious.
“You two were in New York together for the holidays, right?” one girl asks, eyes flicking between us with a knowing smile. “Looks like it went well.”
Nathaniel reaches over, his hand finding mine as he threads our fingers together on the desk. “Extremely,” he tells her.
I stiffen slightly at the public acknowledgment.
He notices. His thumb moves in slow, rhythmic strokes over my knuckles, grounding me in his touch. I tell myself it’s nothing, but my pulse betrays me, quickening under the weight of his attention.
I shouldn’t feel self-conscious. We’ve been together for months now.
But this feels like a debut.
Nathaniel turns his head slightly, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Everything all right?”
I nod automatically. “Yeah. Just…getting used to being back.”
He hums in acknowledgment, but his gaze remains, assessing. He sees through me, as always.
The moment stretches, his fingers tightening briefly around mine before he leans in, brushing a kiss against my temple—soft, fleeting, but unmistakably possessive.
When I glance up again, I catch someone watching.
And in that instant, I understand.
It’s not the attention. It’s that something has changed.
That maybe I have changed.
I glance up from my notes, stretching my fingers before picking up my pen again. Across from me, Nathaniel sits with an open book in front of him, but he hasn’t turned a page in a while.
He’s watching me.
Not obviously—he’s careful about that. His posture is relaxed, one arm resting on the table, his other hand idly tapping his pen against the edge of his book. But his eyes track every small movement I make.
Warmth spreads across my skin, as if his attention alone can leave a mark.
I’ve always known Nathaniel was observant, but lately, it’s been sharper. Heavier. His focus feels less like casual affection and more like he’s cataloging me, committing each tiny habit to memory with an almost surgical kind of precision.
It’s not unsettling, not really. If anything, it’s…comforting, knowing that he pays attention, that he notices things even I don’t.
I reach for my cup of tea, only realizing that it’s been refilled when I feel its warmth.
My gaze flicks to my left. A set of highlighters—the exact colors I use—lined up neatly beside my notes. An article I needed printed and waiting by my laptop.
My brow furrows. I didn’t ask for these things.