But I can’t help but wonder if he feels it too.
He points to the problem. “This is just a system of equations…” He tells me what each of the symbols are and what they mean, making me repeat back much of what he says, rewarding me with kind words, even when I forget something.
We do a few easy problems, working our way up to the harder ones. There are times I want to throw the book across the room; I’m so frustrated, but Kellan stays the course, steering me towards an understanding I never thought I’d have with numbers.
Still, I get just as many questions wrong as I do right.
“I’ll never get this.”
Kellan stays bent over the desk longer than necessary, the heat of him seeping through the thin cotton of my shirt.
“You don’t have to get it all. Just enough to pass.”
I snort derisively. “So I should try my hardest to squeak by, and not even understand all the questions?”
“Why do you think so few people get one-hundred percent? You don’t have to know everything. Just enough.” He turns a page, then lets his hand rest beside it, his pinky grazing my wrist.
The contact is so small, it should be nothing.
It isn’t.
My breath hitches. For several long seconds we stay frozen like that—his finger resting feather-light against the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse that’s suddenly hammering. I can feel the callus on his fingertip, rough from years of work, and the warmth of his skin against mine. I feel it all so much; it’s like I have extra nerves in every part of my body, every single one of them on fire.
Kellan clears his throat. “You’re getting it. Just…keep going slow. No rush.”
The words feel like they’re about more than math.
I turn my head half an inch and breathe in his woodsy pine scent. His face is closer than I realized—close enough that I can see the tortured expression on his handsome face.
“Kellan,” I whisper, not even sure what I want to say. I lick my lips and give him a look that speaks my desire more than words ever could—slow, deliberate, hungry, the kind of starethat says I’ve already imagined his hands on every inch of me and I’m not ashamed of how badly I want it.
His gaze drops to where our skin touches. Something flickers across his expression—greed, maybe, or perhaps regret.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he draws his hand back.
The absence of contact ignites a longing deep within me.
He straightens to his full height in one smooth motion, putting distance between us.
“You’re getting it,” he says, voice rougher than it was thirty seconds ago. “Keep going. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
He disappears through the doorway that leads to the treatment rooms. The door doesn’t slam, but it closes with a firm click that feels final.
My wrist still tingles where he touched it—phantom pressure, like he branded me. I press my own fingers there, trying to trap the warmth before it fades.
It doesn’t.
I let out a shaky breath and force my eyes back to the study guide, but my mind is all needy chaos, and I can’t stop myself from letting it wander to places it has no right being.
I stare at the open page until the variables start to swim. My concentration is shot, replaced by the echo of Kellan’s touch. That single point of contact—his pinky against my pulse. It’s like I’m a teenager again, wondering what his calloused hands feel like, though this time, I imagine them in other places.
Minutes crawl. Or maybe it’s only seconds. Time feels slippery when your mind keeps pinging with possibilities.
The door to the exam room swings open again. Kellan steps through, slower this time, like he’s talked himself into returning.
He comes up to my desk, turns, and sits on the edge, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I, ah, made a few calls.”
