Touching him, holding him that first night had been like coming home. If possible, he’d become more shy, more reserved, but he still made love in that gentle way, as if all he wanted to do in the world was please her.

Then he’d told her their relationship would not exist on campus. Those few words hurt. She hesitated. She didn’t want to make another mistake. Years ago she’d run too fast. This time she didn’t want to run. She wanted to think.

At noon, he was at her door again. “Would you like some lunch?”

“No, thanks.” She pretended to be busy.

He stood in the doorway for several moments. “I could bring you back something if you’re working.”

“No, thanks.”

Benjamin retreated back into his orderly office.

An hour later, she was snacking on her second Snickers when he began to pace.

After ten minutes, she went to the connecting door. “Dr. Monroe, do you have time to look over the first draft of the thesis of our study?”

“Of course.” He moved around her, careful not to touch her as he removed a half-dozen books and took the extra chair in her office.

They worked together on the first draft, their heads almost touching as they edited. The need to touch him distracted her, but she didn’t dare make the first move. She’d follow his rules.

When they finished, she gathered up papers and stood. “We’ve got a good start.”

He stood too. “May I suggest we take a walk to refresh our brains? The weather is quite nice. Once around the campus and then back to work. I have prep to do before class tomorrow.”

She hesitated, then looked up at him and said, “A walk might be nice.”

When they walked past the drugstore, he offered to buy her a malt.

When she smiled, he vanished on his mission. He hadn’t held her hand or walked too close. He was polite, and nervous for some reason.

When he returned with one chocolate malt and one vanilla he apologized for not asking what flavor.

“You live above here, right?” she asked as she picked the closest malt.

“I do. Would you like to see my quarters?”

She nodded, as he looked both directions to make sure no one was watching them. She followed him up a side stairs attached to the drugstore and into a nicely equipped two-room apartment. Everything had its place and all the furnishings matched, like he’d bought them all at the same time as a set. The room almost looked staged to sell and not where someone lived.

Jenny set her purse on one of the kitchen chairs and took a long drink of her malt, hoping it might cool her down. “You have a nice place. Everything is in order, just as I would guess it would be.”