"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."
Notcontact 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.
