Chapter 1 #2
The clock on the wall ticks. Outside, someone laughs too loud on the path below our second-story window.
Inside, the air feels suddenly thinner and charged.
I can feel Noah watching me, the weight of his gaze resting against me like a hand gripping my shoulder.
Years of careful distance, of treating this office like neutral ground, and one offhand remark has me itching to swipe at the sweat on the back of my neck.
I force my pen to move, scratching a meaningless note in the margin of the essay.
Rule-follower. That’s what Noah had called me once, during a faculty happy hour I only attended because the chair insisted.
You ever break a rule, Mercer? I laughed it off.
Changed the subject. Inside, though, the label sat uncomfortably, despite the fact I knew it was true.
Rules keep things clean. Predictable. Safe.
But Noah Ryan has a way of slipping past the lines I’ve drawn.
Patient with students. Dryly funny in department meetings.
A little rough around the edges when he’s tired, like right now.
I hate how aware I am. I hate how, even after all this time, I still remember the exact way he looked at me during that interview, like he’d already seen past the suit and the resume to the parts of me I kept locked down.
I flip another page. Still, I can’t focus on the essay, or anything else.
Noah doesn’t press. He never does—not really. He pushes just enough to make the air crackle, then retreats behind his easy smile. It’s one of the things that makes him such a good professor. And one of the things that makes sharing this office feel like existing in a space with limited oxygen.
I exhale through my nose and finally glance up.
He’s watching me, of course. Hazel eyes steady, mouth curved in that half-smirk that makes me feel like he knows more than he should.
He drums his fingers on the desk just once, both restless and thoughtful, before they still.
The rolled sleeves of his shirt have slipped a fraction, partially covering the faint tan line from his watch.
“Grading that bad?” he asks, tone light, like the previous thirty seconds didn’t happen.
“Freshmen,” I say, the single word an explanation on its own.
He chuckles, the sound warm and low, sweeping through my belly in a way I don’t like. “Tell me about it. I’ve got three of them who think symbolism is just a fancy word for ‘whatever I feel today.’”
I manage a nod. The conversation slides back into familiar grooves with complaints about deadlines, the upcoming symposium and our respective speeches, whether the department chair will ever fix the ancient copier.
Safe topics. Colleague topics. I answer on autopilot while my mind replays not Lauren’s question, but Noah’s reply. On a loop.
You could have said yes.
Why does that sting? I’m not interested in Lauren.
Haven’t been interested in anyone in ages.
My last real date was with a woman named Rhiannon during my final year of grad school.
Three awkward dinners, two even more awkward nights that left me feeling hollow and guilty, and after that, I stopped trying.
I learned that I am not meant for love or passionate sex, and that life is better and easier if I pour everything into lectures and office hours and the slow, steady climb toward tenure.
I’m built differently. I’m wired for work, not wanting. And… that’s okay.
Except lately the office feels smaller. Lately Noah’s laugh lands somewhere behind my ribs and stays there, humming, vibrating, annoying me.
I’ve caught myself noticing the way his shoulders move when he stretches after a long day, or how his voice drops when he’s proud of a student’s breakthrough.
I’ve been noticing, then shoving the noticing into a locked drawer I refuse to open.
I close the essay folder abruptly. “I should head to the gym before my afternoon class. Get my extra miles in.”
Noah leans back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. “Wanna go for a run with us later this week?”
I hesitate. Some of the professors run together at the end of week or on the weekends.
It’s always, to my knowledge, been sporadic, never planned more than a day or two ahead.
I’ve gone a few times, and pushed myself more than I wanted just to stay comfortably behind Noah.
Only I don’t make a habit to join them, or seek out extra time with him outside of work.
“Maybe,” I reply.
His smirk deepens, but his eyes stay soft. “I’ll take a maybe.”
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.