Chapter 40
Noah:
Black blazer, grey slacks, hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Minimal makeup. The kind of understated professional look that somehow made her more striking than if she'd tried.
She scanned the room, and for one brief second—maybe less—her eyes landed on me.
In that moment, everything compressed. The hospital. Her apartment. Her kitchen.
Then she looked away, moving toward Chloe with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry I'm late. Meeting ran over."
"No problem, Dr. Morrison." Chloe had snapped into full professional mode. "Would you like to say a few words?"
"Just that PSA is an excellent organization for students serious about psychology research. I encourage anyone interested to consider joining."
Her eyes didn't drift back toward me once during her brief remarks. Very deliberate, that avoidance.
The session wrapped up. Students started clustering around Chloe with questions. I stayed in my seat, waiting.
Sure enough, Chloe broke away from the group and headed straight for me.
"So?" She stopped next to my chair, one hand resting on the back of it. "What did you think?"
"Informative."
"Just informative?" She laughed. "That's the best I get?"
"We'd really love to have you join." Her hand moved to my shoulder. "Someone with your academic record would be a huge asset."
I was hyperaware of Stella across the room, still talking to students but definitely within earshot. Her shoulders had gone slightly tense.
I shifted forward to grab my backpack, dislodging Chloe's hand in the process. "Honestly, I'm pretty maxed out between Morrison's research project and my other classes."
"Well, here." She pulled out her phone, stepping closer. "Why don't you give me your number and I can send you the details—"
"Oh, I can't." I kept my tone apologetic. "I'm one of those weird people who doesn't give out their number. Childhood trauma thing. Very tragic."
Behind me, Marcus made a strangled choking sound.
Chloe blinked, recovered, then turned to Tyler and Marcus instead. Tyler practically threw his phone at her. I grabbed my backpack and started toward the door.
"Carter."
I stopped and turned. Stella was standing by the podium, expression carefully neutral. Most of the students had cleared out, but a few lingered near the door, chatting.
"Professor Morrison."
"I wanted to confirm you're still attending Monday's research prep meeting."
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Good. Make sure you've completed the online safety training module."
"Already done."
Something flickered across her face. She glanced toward the door, waiting until the last group of students disappeared down the hallway before speaking again. "You can go."
But neither of us moved.
"Actually—" I stepped closer to the desk where she was gathering her papers, keeping my voice low. "I've been meaning to stop by your office hours. For those attachment theory books you mentioned. The ones with your notes in the margins."
"The library has copies." Her eyes darted to the doorway again, then back to me.
"Not with your handwriting." I leaned against the edge of the desk, close enough that my voice wouldn't carry beyond the first row of seats. "Next time I stop by, I might just take the whole stack. Been too long anyway."
"Noah—" She shot another nervous glance toward the open door.
When the footsteps faded, I continued, even quieter now. "You know what's funny? She asked for my number right in front of you." I held her gaze. Her hand tightened on the papers she was holding. "Pretty ballsy move, considering I've been crashing at your place for three days."
Her eyes darted to the door again, then back to me. "Noah, someone could—"
"And she's definitely hot. Great smile. But here's the thing—" I leaned in slightly. "She doesn't own any silk pajamas. Total dealbreaker."
Her breath caught. For a second, she looked like she wanted to murder me. "You need to stop."
"Probably. But I can't stop thinking about that kitchen thing." I grinned. "The way you froze when I got too close. That little hitch in your breath." I paused. "Very distracting during lectures, by the way. Really affecting my academic performance."
"I'm going to regret not failing you when I had the chance."
"And yet you haven't told me to leave." I pushed off the desk. "Interesting."
I headed for the door before she could respond, giving her an out.
"Also," I called back, loud enough to sound casual if anyone was listening, "the childhood trauma excuse was genius, right? Might use that one again. Very versatile."
She was fighting a smile, shaking her head. But the flush creeping up her neck gave her away.
---
Back at the suite, I dropped onto my bed and stared at my phone.
No messages. Nothing.
I could text first. But something told me that if Stella Morrison was going to break her own rules, she needed to do it herself.
So I waited.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it immediately.
Amanda: Hey Noah! 👋 Dr. Morrison mentioned you might need help organizing the research materials before the lab meeting Monday. I'm free tomorrow afternoon if you want to work on it together? Could grab coffee after?
I stared at the message. Amanda. Again.
She'd tried this two weeks ago, right after the research team was announced. Suggested we "coordinate schedules" over lunch. I'd kept it vague, said I'd check my calendar and never followed up.
Apparently, she was trying a different angle now.
I typed back:
Noah: Thanks, but I've got it covered.
More direct this time. No room for misinterpretation.
I set the phone down and went back to staring at the ceiling.
Twenty-three minutes after I'd gotten home from the PSA meeting, my screen lit up again.
Professor: That was completely inappropriate.
I grinned. She'd broken first.
Noah: You texted me first. From your personal number. I'm taking that as encouragement.
Professor: I was checking if you were okay.
Noah: I'm great. Just rejected the hottest girl on campus. For you. You're welcome.
Professor: Noah.
Noah: Also I wasn't lying about the silk pajamas thing. Those have been living rent-free in my head for days.
Professor: Stop.
Noah: Can't. Turns out my brain has a favorite channel now and it's the Stella Morrison Show. Very inconvenient during lectures.
Professor: You're impossible.
Noah: You're texting me at 8pm. Who's impossible?
A long pause.
Professor: Good night, Noah.
Noah: Dream of me, Professor. I'll definitely be dreaming of you. And those pajamas. 😉
No response. But I could picture her face—flushed, caught between wanting to throw her phone across the room and wanting to keep reading.
Ten minutes later:
Professor: For the record, that comment about the pajamas was extremely inappropriate.
Noah: Noted. Want me to tell you what else I've been thinking about?
Professor: Absolutely not.
Noah: Probably for the best. It's pretty detailed.
Professor: Go to bed, Noah.
Noah: Is that an order, Professor? Because I'm very good at following your orders.
No response.
Dangerous. Reckless. Probably going to blow up in both our faces.
But Stella had broken first. Texted from her personal number. Came back for more even after saying good night.
That felt like progress.
And I'd never been good at playing it safe anyway.