Chapter 3
Chapter three
Neal's sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
I noticed that first — the forearms, the way the tendons shifted when he wrote something on his tablet. Then the line of his jaw, tight with concentration. The careful way he held himself, like every muscle was under strict orders to behave.
He was beautiful in a controlled, clinical way. The kind of man who probably didn't know he was beautiful, or pretended not to. Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes that saw too much. Hands that I'd watched perform precise medical procedures and couldn't stop imagining doing other things entirely.
The bond between us pulsed. Wanting.
I was standing in the doorway of North's room, waiting for the evening chart review.
This was part of the routine now — Neal checking vitals, making notes, maintaining the pretense that I was just an intern and he was just my supervisor and neither of us felt the thread of heat that tightened every time we were in the same room.
He looked up. Our eyes met for exactly one second.
The bond flared — his end and mine, tangled together, demanding acknowledgment.
Then he looked away.
"North's cortisol levels are down twelve percent from last week," he said, crossing to where I stood. His voice was flat. Professional. "Document that in his file. Blood pressure is stable. No signs of distress during the afternoon observation period."
He handed me the chart without looking at me.
Our fingers didn't touch. He made sure of that.
"Thank you," I said.
"His food intake has improved as well. Make a note." Neal was already stepping back, already creating distance. "I'll check again in the morning. If anything changes overnight, contact the on-call staff."
Not contact me. The on-call staff.
"I will."
He nodded once. Turned. Walked away.
I watched him go. The straight line of his back. The way his white coat pulled across his shoulders when he moved. The controlled precision of every step.
The bond ached between us — not just emotionally, but lower. A heat that pooled in my stomach and spread. I wanted to follow him. Wanted to grab his arm and make him look at me, really look, instead of this careful avoidance that was slowly driving me insane.
I didn't.
Behind me, North made a soft sound. I turned to find him watching me from his spot by the window, golden eyes knowing in a way that made my cheeks warm.
"Don't," I told him.
The walk back to the dorms was cold, the kind of chill that crept through jacket seams and made your breath visible in the fading light.
I pulled my coat tighter and tried not to think about Neal's forearms. About the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
About the bond that hummed between us like a live wire, ignored but never silent.
He wanted me. I knew he did. The bond didn't lie — couldn't lie. Every time we were in the same room, I felt the pull from his end. The wanting. The heat he buried under layers of professionalism and protocol.
But he wouldn't act on it. Wouldn't even acknowledge it existed.
I understood why. I did. He was staff. I was a student. There were rules, expectations, a power imbalance he was too ethical to ignore. And beyond that — he was scared. I felt that too. The fear underneath the want, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff and I was asking him to jump.
I wasn't asking. Not yet. Not until he was ready.
But god, the waiting was hard.
The dorm hallway was loud when I pushed through the doors.
A cluster of girls had gathered near the bathroom — three of them, heads bent together, voices pitched at that particular frequency that meant gossip. I recognized two of them from my Psychology class. The third was a first-year whose name I didn't know.
I kept my head down and aimed for my room.
"—spends every night with that patient—"
I slowed without meaning to.
"I heard he can't even talk." The first-year's voice, eager and scandalized. "Like, something's really wrong with him. Brain damage or something."
"She dragged him off a mountain," one of the Psychology girls added. "My cousin works in admin. Said the paperwork was insane. Medical exemptions, special housing, some kind of internship that doesn't actually exist—"
"Maybe she feels guilty. Like, she broke him and now she has to fix him."
"Or maybe she's just obsessed. Have you seen her lately? She looks like a ghost."
"Enough."
Ivy's voice cut through the hallway like a blade.
I hadn't seen her approach, but there she was — stepping out of our room, arms crossed, expression flat and dangerous. The gossiping girls went quiet instantly.
"Find something else to talk about," Ivy said. "Or I'll find something to talk about. Like how Marissa's boyfriend has been texting her roommate. Or how Jensen cheated on the midterm and thinks no one noticed."
The first-year's eyes went wide. The Psychology girls exchanged looks.
"We were just—" one of them started.
"Leaving," Ivy finished. "You were just leaving."
They left.
Ivy watched them go, then turned to me. Her expression shifted — still sharp, but softer underneath.
"Come on," she said, jerking her head toward our room. "You look like you need to sit down."
I followed her inside. The door clicked shut behind us, and the noise of the hallway faded to a murmur.
Our room was small — two beds, two desks, a window that looked out over the back courtyard. Ivy's side was organized chaos: books stacked in precarious towers, a corkboard covered in class schedules and photos from home. My side was sparse. I hadn't had the energy to decorate.
I sank onto my bed. Let my bag slide to the floor.
"Ignore them," Ivy said, dropping onto her own mattress. "They're bored and stupid and looking for something to feel superior about."
"I know."
"You're not ignoring them."
"I am."
"You're not." She pulled her legs up, sitting cross-legged, watching me with those sharp eyes that saw too much. "You're cataloging. Filing it away somewhere. Pretending it doesn't hurt when it absolutely does."
I didn't have the energy to argue. She was right. She usually was.
"Lumi." Her voice softened. Just a fraction, but I heard it. "Are you okay? And don't give me 'fine' or 'managing' or any of that deflection bullshit. I'm asking for real. Are you okay?"
The question sat between us, heavy and honest.
I thought about lying. It would be easier — a quick reassurance, a change of subject, the comfortable fiction that I had everything under control.
But this was Ivy. She'd shut down gossip for me. She'd covered for me when I stumbled into the room at 3 AM smelling like antiseptic. She'd asked hard questions and accepted non-answers and never once made me feel like a burden.
She deserved the truth. Or as much of it as I could give.
"No," I admitted. "I'm not okay."
She didn't flinch. Didn't look surprised.
"But I'm still standing," I continued. "Still putting one foot in front of the other."
"Is that enough?"
"It has to be. For now."
Ivy was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded slowly.
"Good enough," she paused, then added: "But if you need something — if it gets to be too much — you tell me. Yeah? Don't just disappear into that building and forget you have a life out here."
"I won't."
"Promise."
"I promise."
She held my gaze for a long moment, measuring. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she nodded again and reached for her laptop.
"Good. Now help me understand this Tomlinson reading, because I'm pretty sure he assigned it specifically to torture us."
The shift was deliberate. Merciful. Ivy's way of saying I'm here, but I won't push.
I grabbed my own copy of the reading and tried to focus on transformation narratives instead of the ache in my chest.
I left for dinner an hour later.
Ivy had a study group — something for her biology class that I wasn't part of — so I walked to the cafeteria alone. The evening had gone fully dark now, the campus lit by old-fashioned lamps that cast pools of yellow light across the pathways.
My breath fogged in the cold air. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked faster.
I was halfway across the main courtyard when I felt it.
The sensation of being watched.
I slowed. Looked around.
Students moved in clusters, heading to dinner or the library or back to their dorms. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.
Then I saw him.
Across the courtyard, near the administration building. Gray suit, perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back like he was posing for a portrait of academic authority.
Headmaster Twilson.
He wasn't moving. Wasn't speaking to anyone. Wasn't pretending to be on his way somewhere else.
He was just standing there.
Watching.
Me.
Our eyes met across the distance. His expression revealed nothing — no hostility, no warmth, no hint of what he was thinking.
Just patient, measured attention. The kind of look a scientist gives a specimen.
The kind that meant he was taking notes, cataloging details, building a picture he hadn't shared with anyone yet.
Building a case.
The moment stretched. I should have looked away first — should have pretended I hadn't noticed, kept walking, refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled me.
I couldn't.
His gaze held mine, calm and steady and absolutely certain of something I wasn't privy to. He knew things. About me, about North, about the Healing Center and Rae's arrangements and the special exemptions that let me spend my nights in a restricted wing.
He knew. And he was waiting.
For what, I didn't know. A mistake. A slip. A reason to act.
I looked away first.
My heart was beating too fast as I turned and kept walking toward the cafeteria. I didn't run. Didn't let my pace change. But I felt his gaze on my back like a physical weight, pressing between my shoulder blades, following me all the way to the cafeteria doors.
When I finally stepped inside, into the warmth and noise and chaos of dinner rush, I let myself breathe.
Dinner was mechanical.
I found a seat in the corner, away from the main flow of traffic. Ate without tasting. Smiled at people who waved, answered questions I didn't hear, performed the motions of a normal student having a normal meal.
Inside, my skin crawled.
I couldn't stop thinking about Twilson's eyes. That patient, measuring look. The way he'd stood there, perfectly still, like he had all the time in the world.
James found me halfway through my pasta.
"You okay?" he asked, sliding into the seat across from me. "You look scared."
I hesitated. Then: "Twilson. He was watching me. In the courtyard."
James's expression darkened. "Watching you how?"
"Just... watching. Standing there. Like he wanted me to know he was paying attention."
"That's not good."
"No." I pushed my pasta around my plate. "It's not."
We sat in silence for a moment. James's hand stayed on my wrist, warm and steady.
"Come to the library with me," he said finally. "Study for a bit. Get your mind off it."
I should have said yes. Should have let him distract me, ground me, pull me back into the ordinary rhythms of student life.
But the unsettled feeling wouldn't leave. It sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and there was only one place I knew how to go when I felt like this.
"I can't," I said. "I need to check on North."
James's jaw tightened. Just slightly. Then he nodded.
"Okay. I'll walk you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He stood, gathered both our trays. "Come on."
The Healing Center was quiet at night.
Different from daytime quiet — deeper, softer, the hush of a place that knew how to keep secrets. The front desk was empty. The hallways dim, lit only by emergency lights and the faint glow from occupied rooms.
James left me at the entrance to the residential wing.
He kissed my forehead. Let me go.
North was awake when I slipped into his room.
He was by the window again — his favorite spot, the one where he could see the moon through the narrow glass. His head came up when I entered, golden eyes finding me in the darkness.
The bond flooded with warmth. Relief.
"I wasn't supposed to come back. But I needed—"
I didn't finish the sentence. Didn't know how to explain the cold knot in my chest, the way Twilson's gaze had made me feel exposed and hunted. The way the only thing that made sense right now was being here, in this room, with him.
North didn't need an explanation.
He crossed to me in three strides. Pressed his head against my stomach, then my chest, pushing into me until I had no choice but to sink down onto the floor beside him.
I sat with my back against his bed. He settled beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my clothes. Then, slowly, he moved — repositioning himself so that his side was against mine, his heartbeat close enough to feel.
An invitation.
I leaned into him. Let my head rest against the thick fur of his shoulder. Closed my eyes.
His heartbeat was slow and steady. A rhythm that had nothing to do with Twilson or rumors or the impossible tangle of bonds in my chest. Just this. Just life, persisting. A man who had been lost for years, still breathing. Still here.
The tension in my shoulders started to ease.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I admitted, barely above a whisper. "Everyone's watching me. Expecting me to have answers. And I don't. I'm just... making it up as I go."
North's head turned. His nose brushed my hair, inhaling. A soft sound rumbled in his chest — not quite a whine, not quite a growl. Something in between.
His heartbeat kept its steady rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I matched my breathing to it. In and out. In and out.
The world outside this room was complicated. Dangerous. Full of people who wanted things I didn't know how to give and threats I didn't know how to fight.
But here, there was just this.
His warmth. His heartbeat. The bond humming quietly between us, asking nothing, offering everything.
I closed my eyes.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, I fell asleep.