The Forbidden Throb Chapter 101

Emma's POV:

Blake's face flickered with disappointment—just for a second—before he recovered with practiced ease. "Of course. See you next time."

I watched him navigate through the maze of study tables toward the exit, his figure disappearing behind a row of bookshelves.

My shoulders dropped with relief.

*Finally.*

I glanced at my materials spread across the window-side table.

*Maybe I'm overthinking this.*

Still, I gathered my laptop and notebooks, leaving the coveted window seat behind. Better safe than sorry.

The fourth floor southeast corner was nearly deserted— tucked behind the periodical archives. The lighting was dim, the chairs less comfortable, but *private*.

I settled in, finally able to focus.

---

After finishing a day of study and returning to the dorm, I shared this gossip with Olivia.

"Wait, back up." Olivia sat cross-legged on her bed, a half-eaten bag of chips in her lap. "Blake Morrison? *That* Blake Morrison?"

"Yeah." I kicked off my shoes, collapsing onto my own bed. "Except he looks completely different now. Lost all the weight, grew out his hair. I barely recognized him."

Olivia's eyes went wide. "No way. The guy who used to belay for everyone because he couldn't climb?"

"That's the one."

"Damn." She popped a chip in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Maybe all fat guys are potential heartthrobs. Like, hidden treasure situation."

I laughed, pulling a pillow over my face.

"I think he was cuter before, honestly. More... genuine."

---

I didn't expect to hear from Blake again so soon.

The next morning, I'd just settled into my usual spot on the third floor of South Campus Library when my phone buzzed.

**Blake:** *Are you at South Campus right now? I think I just saw you walk in.*

I froze, my coffee cup halfway to my lips.

I glanced around the reading room. No sign of him anywhere. But my scalp prickled with unease.

**Emma:** *Yeah, I'm here.*

If I lied and he suddenly appeared in front of me, it would be even more awkward. Better to be honest.

**Blake:** *It's packed down here. I've been circling for twenty minutes and can't find a seat. Is there space at your table?*

My eyes dropped to the empty chair across from me.

These small window-side tables were intimate by design—barely three feet across. Add two laptops, notebooks, and coffee cups, and personal space disappeared entirely.

Most students only shared these tables with close friends or significant others.

I stared at my phone, mind racing.

I knew so little about Blake. Couldn't read his intentions. But instinct told me not to refuse too bluntly.

**Emma:** *You can have my seat. I was just about to leave anyway.*

I started packing up my laptop.

Before I could finish, Blake appeared beside my table, slightly out of breath. In his hands: two cups from Thinking Cup.

"Morning." His smile was sheepish. "I accidentally bought an extra cup. Help me out?"

Before I could respond, he'd already pulled one of the cups from the carrier and placed it directly on my table beside my laptop. Still steaming hot.

I stared at it. At him.

*How does someone become this... forward?*

He settled into the seat, unzipping his backpack to reveal a thick stack of printed papers.

Each page was meticulously organized with colored tabs, highlighted sections, and handwritten notes in the margins.

"I compiled these last semester for my advanced physiology class," he said, sliding the stack toward me. "Figured they'd be perfect for your Paris forum project."

The papers fanned across the small table between us. Easily a hundred pages. Every article marked up was like a professional research assistant had prepared them.

*This isn't casual. This is planned.*

"Thank you," I managed again, because what else could I say? Refusing would make me look ungrateful. Suspicious.

I forced myself to look at the papers. To nod at appropriate moments. To pretend this was normal.

My fingers turned the first page.

And stopped.

Right there, in the top corner: *Dr. Prescott, Harvard Medical School, Department of Cardiac Surgery.*

I flipped to the next paper. Same author.

And the next. And the next.

*Daniel.*

Every single paper in this stack—all of them—bore Daniel's name.

Blake had been watching my reaction closely. When he saw my fingers pause on the paper. He quickly tried to explain.

"Since you're not in the medical program, you might not know much about the author of these papers. He's basically a—"

"Actually, I do."

My interruption clearly caught him off guard. "What?"

"I'm not completely unfamiliar with him." I kept my tone measured. "I came across Professor Prescott's profile when doing background research for the project."

Blake blinked, recalibrating. "Oh. Well, yeah—he's brilliant. Revolutionary, really. His minimally invasive valve replacement techniques are changing the entire field."

"You seem to know a lot about him," I said, steering the conversation. "Are you planning to apply for his lab?"

Blake's expression shifted—reverent, almost worshipful. "Yeah. He's my top choice for PhD advisor. "

He paused, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. "But Dr. Prescott only takes one or two students per year, and the competition is insane."

I nodded, keeping my face carefully sympathetic.

But inside, something warm and fizzy bubbled up in my chest—absurd, almost childish.

*That's my husband you're talking about.*

The thought sent a thrill through me that I had no business feeling. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

Blake opened his own laptop, angling it so I could see the screen.

"Actually, let me walk you through some of these key papers..."

My stomach sank.

*He's not leaving.*

I glanced at the stack of papers between us, then at Blake's eager expression. He'd already opened a document on his laptop, finger poised to scroll through dense paragraphs of medical terminology.

*How do I get out of this?*

Just as I opened my mouth to manufacture an excuse, someone tapped my shoulder from behind.