Page 34 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

“You’re here late again,” he says, stepping only as far as the threshold. He smells faintly of cold air, bergamot, and sandalwood, the scent muted by distance and the open hall. My body takes it in anyway, traitorous and relieved before my mind catches up.

“I’m almost done.” I close the housing tab too quickly, which is probably worse than leaving it open. “I lost track of time.”

“You’ve lost track of time four nights this week.” Dash’s voice stays quiet, but there is no softness in it that lets me wriggle away. “The hotel called the department office this afternoon. They said your campus rate ends Friday and asked whether we were approving another extension.”

My stomach drops in a slow, humiliating wave. I look at the papers on my desk as if one of them can provide a professional answer. “They weren’t supposed to call you. I told them I’d handle it.”

“They called the office number attached to the original placement. Bethany routed it to me because she didn’t know whether it was financial or housing.” He comes into the office then, stopping on the other side of the desk with enough space between us that my lungs keep working. “Calliope, do you have somewhere lined up?”

“I had somewhere lined up.” The correction leaves me too quickly, defensive and useless. “The apartment fell through. Or got delayed. The phrasing keeps changing depending on who emails me. It’s fine for a few more days. I can find another place.”

Dash doesn't look convinced. He also doesn't look surprised, which somehow makes my throat tighten more. “Have you been staying late because you don’t want to go back to the hotel?”

I reach for the pen beside my keyboard and move it two inches to the left. It is a ridiculous thing to do, but it keeps my hand busy. “The hotel is nice.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

The sentence isn't sharp, and maybe that’s why it lands. I press my lips together and look past him to the hall, where the lights have gone dim over the bulletin board full of flyers for lectures and student groups and a faculty book club I still haven’t been brave enough to attend. “It’s temporary,” I say. “Everything there is temporary. The coffee cups, the towels, the people at the desk knowing my name because they have to look it up. I keep thinking if I don’t put anything away, leaving won’t feel like losing another place.”

Dash sets the leather folder on the corner of my desk. He doesn’t open it. “I have somewhere you can stay.”

My first answer is no, even though I don’t say it. It moves through my body with enough force that I sit back in the chair, putting more space between us as if he has reached for me. Dash sees the movement. He steps back instead of forward, and the quiet correction makes my eyes burn.

“It’s a lockoff at my house,” he says. “Separate entrance, separate key, small kitchen, full bath. The internal door locks from your side. It used to be my sister’s place before she moved closer to her job, and it’s been empty for over a year. You can stay there until you find something that works, and we can write up a rental agreement if that makes it easier.”

“I can’t stay at your house.” I push to my feet because sitting makes the room feel smaller. My chair rolls back and taps the wall behind me. “You’re my department chair, and I’m already the person with the strange hiring file and the active-investigation shadow and the hotel problem. I can’t add living in your lockoff to the list of things people can whisper about.”

“Then we don’t give them much to whisper about.” Dash keeps his hands visible at his sides, his voice steady. “You pay rent. You have your own entrance. We document it with HR if you want it formal, or we keep it as a private short-term rental if legal says that’s cleaner. I’ll ask Zora in faculty affairs which route protects you better.”

“Dash, I’m sorry.” The words come out before I can stop them, fast and thin. “I’m sorry you even had to get the call. I should’ve had it handled. I know this is messy, and I’m trying not to be, but every time I get one thing settled, something else falls apart.”

His expression changes then, not dramatically. Just enough for the air to shift around him. “Stop apologizing for being in a hard place.”

The room goes too quiet around the sentence. I can hear the radiator, the faint buzz of the hallway lights, the little click my phone makes when a notification arrives and I refuse to turnit over. I look down at my desk, at the blank line where an emergency contact should be, and my hands are shaking again.

“I'm a mess,” I say, and the admission feels less like confession than evidence everyone can already see. “I don’t know how to make that less true.”

“You don’t have to make it less true before you accept help.” Dash’s eyes move to my scarf, then away before the glance can become a question. “You don’t have to decide tonight. But Friday is tomorrow, and you shouldn’t be spending another week negotiating with a hotel desk because you’re afraid a safe option might be too generous to trust.”

I want to argue with the word safe. I want to say safe is a story people tell right before they take something back. I want to tell him about paperwork and police officers, about Sloane’s name on a rejection I still can't survive looking at directly, about Idris not calling, about Theo needing space from me, about how Alpha care can feel like warmth until the hand closes. The words sit behind my teeth, crowded and useless.

Dash opens the leather folder and turns it toward me. Inside is a printed page with a short lease drafted in plain language, a note about rent matching the hotel weekly rate divided into monthly terms, and a second page listing the lockoff details. Separate entrance. Parking space. Utilities included. Internal door remains locked from tenant side unless tenant chooses otherwise. Thirty-day flexibility. No penalty for leaving earlier.

“You made paperwork,” I say, and my voice almost breaks on the ridiculous relief of it.

“I thought it might help.” Dash rests two fingers on the folder and then lets go, leaving it in my reach instead of pushing it closer. “If you say no, I’ll help you find another place tomorrow. If you say yes, I can take you to the hotel tonight so you can pack what you need. We can get the rest this weekend.”

My fingers touch the edge of the page. The paper is warm from his hand. I hate that I notice. I hate more that I want to notice.

“If I say yes, I need to pay rent,” I say. “Real rent. I can’t owe you something vague.”

“You’ll pay rent.” He nods once, as if that was always assumed. “You won’t owe me anything else.”

The old part of me waits for the hook. The quiet pressure. The shift in scent that tells me his patience has a cost. Dash only stands in my office with tired eyes and his coat over one arm, waiting as if my answer matters more than his desire to fix the problem.

I look around the office that has become too familiar for six weeks and still not familiar enough to keep me. My cardigan is on the back of the chair. My annotated copy of the ethics reader is under a student’s paper. Mara’s email is open in another tab I forgot to close, her subject line simple and firm.I’m here now.

“Okay,” I say, and the word is barely more than breath. I clear my throat and try again. “Okay. I’ll stay there until I figure things out.”