Rachel Ellis had always been good at holding reality without dropping it. She could face things as they were, mostly, without too many issues. But now that she was attempting to carry two somewhat incompatible versions of her life, she found herself dangerously short on hands.

  On one hand: she was a lab instructor, new enough that every mistake felt like it would be laminated and pinned up for sport. On the other: Noah Bennett existed.

  Thursdays, apparently, were where the two realities tried to occupy the same space and immediately became a fire hazard.

  She left the chemistry building with her posture intact, keys in her hand, expression set to calm competence. If anyone looked at her, they’d see what they were meant to see: a composed young instructor finishing her third week of term. If anyone looked closer—close enough to be rude—they might have noticed she was walking like she’d spent the last three hours making an escape plan.

  She’d taught Noah today for the first time since that Monday evening a couple of days earlier. She’d said his name out loud in a room full of other people and meant it in the right way, the safe way, the way that didn’t curl around her ribs and tug. She’d watched him sit with his shoulders too still and his eyes too attentive, and she’d felt the ridiculous, disorienting pride of hearing him answer something cleanly—confident and precise—like he belonged there.

  Which he did. That was the problem. He belonged in too many places. Her lab. Her building. Her kitchen, lately—her bed, more accurately, but Rachel had discovered a talent for thinking around that particular fact when she needed to keep breathing.

  They’d drafted the rules that Monday night, somewhere between the moment "we shouldn't" turned into "we already did" and Rachel’s own eventual, whispered argument that "one more time couldn’t hurt."

  The terms sounded sensible in the soft, post-gravity quiet of his bedroom. Professional on campus. No lingering in the building. No suspicious lunches. No dates within a few kilometres of the university. And, crucially, Sunday and Wednesday nights were off-limits. They had even agreed to limit contact on the afternoons leading up to those nights, having quickly realized that living six feet apart was a significant hazard to their attention spans.

  So, they’d be reasonable. Mature. Responsible.

  Wednesday night arrived, and Rachel discovered—with deep offense—that responsibility felt an awful lot like withdrawal when you’d only been indulging the habit for forty-eight hours.

  They’d exchanged a few texts since morning, but nothing substantial. A practical check-in. A carefully neutral joke. Enough to confirm they were both alive, but not enough to satisfy the part of her that had been rewired on Monday and decided it preferred living at high voltage.

  She’d told herself she’d manage. She’d told herself the space was necessary to make Thursday morning easier. And technically, the logic held. It just also left her missing him so sharply she’d had to pause in the stairwell earlier and stare at a fire safety poster until her face stopped doing whatever it wanted.

  Now, walking home, her hand kept drifting toward her pocket like a reflex. Each time, she forced it down. She didn’t want to be the person who couldn’t make it from campus to her apartment without checking if Noah existed—especially when she knew he was at his part-time job for another hour anyway.

  She failed on the last stretch.

  Just a quick message. A confirmation that he’d be over to help teach her how to cook—leaving the logistics of after dinner conspicuously undefined. Rachel shoved the phone away with the brittle patience of someone confiscating contraband from herself.

  King’s Park Flats came into view—too close to campus to feel real, too nice to feel earned, and currently the site of what could only be described as her personal moral collapse. She let herself into the lobby, nodded at a passing resident she didn’t know, and kept her expression neutral through the elevator ride.

  She watched the numbers tick upward, trying not to think about the fact that Noah would soon be done with work and knocking gently on her front door.

  She stepped into the hallway and felt the quiet settle around her—the sound-swallowing carpet, the closed doors, the building’s strange, polite hush.

  And there it was again. The absurd ache of missing him. It was immediate and stupid, like her body hadn’t gotten the memo that she was an adult with a job and a fully functional prefrontal cortex.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Rachel unlocked her apartment, stepped inside, and shut the door with a soft click that sounded final. She exhaled.

  Then her phone rang.

  Rachel jumped, then glanced at the screen. Her spine straightened instinctively. Mom. She answered before the second ring—partly because she loved her mother, and partly because her mother had a talent for turning a missed call into a tactical wellness check.

  “Hi,” Rachel said, smoothing her voice into its most reassuring shape. “I just got home.”

  Her mother’s reply came out fast, relieved. “Oh, good. I had a feeling you were still at the university, trying to reinvent the curriculum in a single night.”

  “It’s only the third week,” Rachel said, toeing off her shoes and leaning against the doorframe. “There’s nothing to reinvent yet.”

  “Mhm.” Her mother laughed, unconvinced but appreciative. “How was today?”

  Rachel opened her mouth and almost said fine. She caught herself in time. Fine was a flare gun.

  “It was busy,” she said instead. “But good. I survived.”

  A pause—small, but weighted. Her mother had always been excellent at hearing the parts Rachel didn’t say.

  “You sound better,” her mother said, the observation landing with surgical precision. “You’ve been off.”

  Rachel reached for a glass of water on autopilot. “I was just stressed. New job adjustments.”

  “I know,” her mother replied, not unkindly. “But you were the specific kind of stressed where you start answering the phone like a customer service rep and forget to eat anything that isn’t beige.”

  Rachel snorted despite herself. “That is not a medical diagnosis.”

  “It’s a maternal one. Which is more accurate.” Another pause, this one brighter. “So.”

  Rachel squeezed her eyes shut. Here it came.

  Her mother’s voice dropped, casually conspiratorial. “Is this the neighbour’s doing?”

  Rachel’s hand stilled around the glass. Of course. Of course that was the leap. Her mother had been treating the "Noah Situation" like a limited series she was binge-watching since the first time Rachel had mentioned him.

  Rachel started to deny it, then stopped. Denial required an energy she didn’t have, and lying required a mental agility she had left in Noah’s bed.

  Her mother’s pleased inhale was audible. “Oh?”

  “Please don’t,” Rachel warned, weakly.

  “I’m not doing anything,” her mother said, doing absolutely everything with her tone. “I’m just happy you sound like a person again. I’m allowed to be curious about the cause.”

  Rachel leaned her hip against the counter, warmth creeping up her neck. “You’ve been curious since I moved in.”

  “Yes,” her mother admitted shamelessly. “Because you moved into a solitary apartment and immediately got adopted by a very polite young man who puts together your furniture and feeds you dinner. You can’t blame me for finding the plotline compelling.”

  Rachel made a helpless sound. “I didn’t get adopted.” The word sat uncomfortably in her chest. Weeks ago, it would have been a funny way to describe Noah’s aggressive helpfulness. Now, knowing he was eighteen, it felt reckless, and its accuracy made it terrifying.

  “Semantics,” her mother dismissed. “So? What happened? Last week you sounded like you were living on cortisol and spite. Today you sound… lighter.”

  Rachel stared at the edge of the countertop like it held answers. “I... I don't think I'm ready to talk about the details yet,” she said, and it was the most honest thing she’d said all day.

  Her mother didn’t push. Not right away. She just softened, shifting from Investigator back to Mom. “Okay,” she said. “That’s fine. I won’t pry.”

  Rachel waited.

  Her mother added, with deliberate innocence, “But I’m going to take a wild guess that the Noah Situation has… progressed.”

  Rachel’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it—quiet, unwilling, and entirely incriminating.

  “Aha,” her mother said, delighted. “There it is. A laugh. Welcome back, Rachel.”

  Rachel covered her eyes with her free hand. “Mom. Stop.”

  “I’m sorry,” her mother said, not sounding sorry at all, just pleased. “I’m relieved. You spend so much time in your own head. It’s good to hear you... out of it.”

  Rachel swallowed. The way her mother said it—like she’d been waiting for Rachel to finally unclench—made her chest ache.

  “It’s… good,” Rachel admitted. But the word felt small. Good was a box you checked on an evaluation form. It wasn't the right word for the feeling of Noah’s hands in her hair, or the terrifying, perfect relief of waking up and realizing she didn't have to be perfect.

  Her mother exhaled, satisfied. “Okay. Good.”

  Rachel swallowed. “You’re not going to ask more?”

  “Oh, I’m dying to ask,” her mother said promptly. “I have a list. But I’m not going to interrogate you while you’re actually in a good mood. I’m playing the long game.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “I appreciate the restraint.”

  Her mother brightened again. “Are you eating tonight? Like, actual food. Not cereal. Not ‘I looked at a yogurt at 4 p.m. and that counts.’”

  Rachel huffed. “Yes. I’m eating.”

  “Good. Tell your neighbour thank you.”

  Rachel blinked. “For what?”

  “For whatever he did to remind you that you’re allowed to be happy,” her mother said simply.

  Rachel’s smile widened, helpless and stupid and real. “He’ll be thrilled to know he has your ongoing approval.”

  “He should,” her mother said. “It sounds like he’s earned it.”

  Rachel’s cheeks warmed again, but her voice stayed calm. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Please do,” her mother said, softer now. “And Rach?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re not doing this alone. I'm happy for you.”

  Rachel’s throat tightened. She blinked hard, staring at the empty hallway that suddenly felt less like a gap and more like a bridge.

  “Me too,” she said.

  They said their goodbyes, and Rachel ended the call with her chest feeling both lighter and dangerously full—like she’d just let something important be real without naming it out loud.