Chapter 202
Chapter 202
Stella:
The Last Morning
We packed slowly, both of us dragging out every moment. The house that had been our sanctuary felt impossibly small now, every corner holding a memory we'd have to carry back with us in secret.
"We'll come back," Noah said, watching me fold clothes. "Someday when we don't have to hide, we'll come back here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The journey back reversed our arrival—puddle jumper to San José, transfer to our international flight, the long hours crossing back toward the coast of California. We maintained our careful separation through the San José airport, found each other again on the plane in adjacent seats by arrangement, then split up again through customs in Los Angeles.
In the terminal parking structure, between two cars, Noah kissed me one last time.
"The remaining break is only a week," he said. "Can you do this?"
"I have to."
"That's not what I asked."
I looked up at him. "I don't know. But I'm going to try."
"That's all I ask." He kissed my forehead. "Text me when you get home."
"Always."
---
The remaining week of winter break passed in a strange limbo—frequent texts, no calls, the unspoken agreement that we needed distance before returning to campus. I unpacked, did laundry, prepared myself for returning to Dr. Morrison. For returning to the composed professor who was definitely not in love with her student.
The night before classes resumed, Noah sent a photo. Him on his motorcycle, the same one he'd taken me riding on months ago. The caption read: Ready to pretend I don't know how you take your coffee.
I stared at it, felt something tighten behind my sternum.
Me: This is going to kill me.
Noah: Then let's make it worth dying for.
---
Week One — Whole Foods
The last few days of break, I needed groceries. Normal, domestic, boring. Except Noah asked if he could come, and I said yes without thinking twice, and somehow we ended up at Whole Foods together like a normal couple doing normal couple things.
It was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
Noah pushed the cart. I selected organic tomatoes. He reached past me for something on a high shelf, his arm brushing my shoulder, and I didn't move away. He put my preferred olive oil in the cart without checking the price, without asking. When I lingered comparing two labels, he leaned close and said quietly, "The one on the left. You bought it last month."
The fact that he remembered made my chest ache.
We were in the dairy section—Noah reaching for yogurt, me trying to look like I was deeply invested in comparing cream cheese options—when I heard it.
"Noah? Oh my god, hi!"
Chloe Park. Workout clothes, high ponytail, moving toward him in a straight line with the confidence of someone who'd never once been told no and believed it.
Her hand landed on his arm. "I didn't know you were still in town!"
"Just staying local." His voice was friendly but closed off. Body language creating distance without moving.
"Me too! We should grab coffee—I wanted to talk to you about the PSA mentorship—" Her hand slid from his arm to his shoulder. "You'd be so good at it."
I stood four feet away, fingers white on the cart handle, maintaining the expression of a professor who'd accidentally encountered a student and had absolutely zero investment in the interaction.
Chloe's eyes flicked to me. "Oh! Dr. Morrison!"
"Chloe." A polite nod. The kind I'd give anyone I vaguely recognized.
She looked between us. We were standing far enough apart that it clearly registered as coincidence—a professor and a freshman, separately buying groceries. The thought didn't even seem to cross her mind.
She turned back to Noah. Her hand still on his shoulder. "So about that coffee—"
Noah reached for a water bottle from the shelf, the movement neat and deliberate, forcing her to drop her hand. "I'm pretty committed to research this semester. Tight schedule."
"Oh." Disappointed but not deterred. "Well, I'll see you in class then."
After she left, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The yogurt sat in the cart.
"Let's go," Noah said quietly, not looking at me.
I didn't move.
"You know I don't care about her," he said.
"I know." My voice came out perfectly level. The lecture-hall voice.
"Then can you stop gripping the cart like that. Your knuckles are white."
I looked down at my hands, forced them open. Took a breath.
"I hate this." Very quiet. Not my usual register at all.
Noah turned to face me. Not with pity, not with sympathy—he knew I'd dislike both. Just steady. Serious.
"I hate it too." Then, faster than I could track, his fingers brushed across the back of my hand. Less than a second.
"Come on. Your organic tomatoes are getting warm."
I looked at him. Felt the corner of my mouth move, almost involuntarily. Pushed the cart forward.
---
Week Two — Spring Semester
The first day back, I walked into PSY 301 and found Chloe Park enrolled.
She hadn't needed the credit. She'd added it as an elective—officially to fulfill a social science requirement, but the way she'd chosen the seat three rows behind Noah told a different story entirely.
I stood at the front of the room and lectured about micro-expressions and nonverbal communication while Chloe sat close enough to touch Noah's shoulder. Her body angle, her frequency of contact, her laugh pitched exactly right—all of it was a textbook demonstration of the very material I was teaching.
I kept my voice level. My hands steady on the laser pointer.
After class, Noah lingered with a deliberately bland question about the syllabus. Chloe hovered nearby, pretending to check her phone.
"The reading load seems heavy," Noah said, perfectly professional.
"It's a 300-level course, Mr. Carter. I expect you to manage."
"Of course, Dr. Morrison."
Our eyes met for half a second. Then Chloe materialized beside him asking about borrowed notes, and I turned away.
In my office, door closed, I stood behind it with my eyes shut.
My phone buzzed.
Noah: Chloe asked me to a party tonight. I said no.
Me: You don't need to report these things to me.
Noah: Yes I do. Because otherwise you stand at the front of the room watching her touch my arm and think I'm okay with it.
Me: Are you?
Noah: Stella.
I set the phone down. Picked it up again.
Me: I trust you.
Noah: I know. But you hate this.
He was quoting the supermarket. I stared at those four words for a long time before I could make myself put the phone away and go back to work.