Page 130 of What We Don't Say: Part One

I check my phone while the woman showing me around points out the faculty lounge.

Nothing.

No missed call from Sloane. No text from Idris. No message from Theo with careful punctuation and too much space between sentences because he’s trying to sound normal while nervous. My last text to Sloane sits there, sent fifteen minutes ago and unanswered:Interview is finished. They’re showing me around for a few minutes. How’s Theo? Call me when you can.Beneath it is the shorter message I sent Theo right after:Hi, Star. Lunch was my favorite part of today. I’m checking campus, then I’m coming home.

Neither one has changed.

“Dr. Monroe?” the faculty member asks gently, and I look up so fast my smile arrives late.

“Sorry.” I tuck the phone against my palm instead of putting it away. “Pack timing. One of ours is close to his heat, so I’m trying not to hover and failing at it.”

Her face softens with the polite sympathy of someone who doesn’t know enough to ask more. “We’re almost done. I can walk you back to the admin wing, or you can take a few minutes in the courtyard if you need to make a call.”

“I think I should head out soon,” I say, looking toward the parking lot again because the tug in my chest is no longer only warm. It’s insistent. “I’m farther from home than I realized, and if he needs me, I don’t want to lose more time.”

She nods, understanding enough, and starts to answer, but the side door of the humanities building opens before she can. One of the men from the interview panel steps out with a folder under one arm and a tie loosened at his throat. He has warm brown skin, dark hair threaded with a little gray at the temples, and the kind of steady Alpha presence that doesn’t push into the space before him. I remember his name because it startled me the first time he said it.

Dash Rivera.

He pauses when he sees us, then smiles in a way that makes him look like he’s trying not to be too pleased. “Dr. Monroe. I’m glad I caught you before you left.”

My chest tightens around the last name, but I’ve already survived one hour of sitting across from him without letting it show. Rivera isn’t rare. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It can be a name, not a knife.

“I was just about to head back,” I say, and the sentence comes out brighter than I feel because professional joy is easier to wear than fear. “Thank you again for your questions in the interview. They were helpful.”

“They were selfish.” His smile deepens a little. “I wanted to hear how you think in a room, not only on paper. I’m not supposed to say anything until HR sends the formal letter, but the position is yours if you want it.”

For a second, everything goes quiet in the best way.

The courtyard, the unanswered phone, the strange heat in my chest, the ache in my shoulder — all of it pulls back far enough for happiness to reach me. My breath catches, and then I’m beaming at him like I have no defenses at all. The job is mine. Not maybe. Not we’ll be in touch. Mine. Something bright and real presses up under my ribs, and the first thing I want is Sloane’s voice in my ear, Idris’s hand on my back, Theo’s smile when I tell him the campus has soup and a courtyard where he could hide from everyone with a book.

“Really?” I ask, because apparently education and dignity have both abandoned me.

“Really.” Dash’s expression warms. “You were excellent. The committee is aligned, and HR should move quickly. There is one thing I’ll say personally, not as a condition or pressure. I think you’d be exceptional here, but the farther sister-campus position may give you more room to build the program you described.”

My smile doesn’t disappear. It changes, opening into something almost painful because I can imagine the conversation now. I can imagine calling Sloane and hearing him say he meant it when he told me he’d go anywhere. I can imagine Idris asking about housing, distance, funding, heat accommodations, all of it while already building a plan in his head. I can imagine Theo in a different sunroom, stealing sweaters out of a new laundry basket and pretending he didn’t.

“I have a pack,” I say, and I’m still smiling when I say it because it still feels like a promise instead of a boundary. “I can’t make a move like that without them. But I’d love to talk it through if the offer gives me time.”

“Of course,” Dash says. “A week, at least. More if HR can manage it.”

My phone feels heavy in my hand. I glance down again, expecting the screen to light because joy should call joy toward it. It stays dark. The tug in my chest heats once, sharp enough that I press my free hand over my sternum.

Dash notices. “Are you all right?”

“I think I need to call home.” I unlock the screen, already tapping Sloane’s name, but before the call can connect, two campus safety officers step into the courtyard from the path beside the admin wing. One is in a navy uniform with a radio at her shoulder. The other holds a tablet against her chest and scans the courtyard until her eyes land on me.

“Dr. Monroe?” the officer with the tablet asks, polite enough that the question doesn’t scare me until the faculty member beside me goes still.

“Yes.”

“Could you come with us, please?” She glances at Dash, then back at me. “There’s an administrative matter that needs your attention.”

Dash’s pleasant expression thins. He doesn’t move closer, but his attention sharpens on me in a way I feel along my skin. “Is there a problem?”

“We just need Dr. Monroe to come to the admin wing,” the officer says. “It shouldn’t take long.”

I tell myself it’s about hiring paperwork. I tell myself it’s something to do with the offer, background checks, pack disclosures, HR forms. My phone sits in my palm with Sloane’s name still open and uncalled, and the heat in my chest tells me to go home while my feet follow the officer across the courtyard.