The Error Of Us

Chapter Two: Controlled Variables

Mara stared at the lab door long after Declan had left, her fingers still tingling where his skin had brushed hers. Idiot. She shook her hand as if she could physically dislodge the sensation. She had a grant proposal to finish, data to analyze, and absolutely no time to dwell on the way his stupid smirk made her stomach flip.

She turned back to her computer with renewed determination, cracking her knuckles. The NSF grant was due in forty-eight hours, and she refused to let Declan Whitmore—or her traitorous hormones—distract her.

Her phone buzzed.

[Unknown Number]: You forgot your jacket.

Mara frowned. She hadn't—

The door slid open again, and Declan strolled back in, holding up her gray cardigan like a trophy.

"Leaving this behind is a rookie mistake, Sinclair," he said. "What if the lab gets cold?"

"I have a PhD in neuroscience," she deadpanned. "I think I can handle a slight temperature drop."

"Sure, sure." He draped the cardigan over the back of her chair, his fingers lingering just a second too long. "But you're always cold. Exhibit A: last year's department retreat, when you stole my hoodie and refused to give it back."

Mara's face heated. "I borrowed it. And it was freezing in that cabin."

"And yet you survived." His grin was slow, knowing. "Funny how that works."

She snatched the cardigan and shoved it into her bag. "Don't you have your own proposal to finish?"

"Already done."

Mara's head snapped up. "What?"

Declan shrugged, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Submitted it this morning."

Her stomach dropped. That was impossible. The deadline wasn't for another two days, and she'd seen him in the lab at midnight yesterday, scowling at his laptop like it had personally offended him.

"You're lying," she accused.

"Am I?" He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and turned it toward her. There it was—a confirmation email from the NSF portal, time-stamped 9:03 a.m.

Mara's throat went dry.

Declan pocketed his phone. "Relax, Sinclair. You'll get there."

She wanted to strangle him. Or cry. Or maybe both.

Instead, she spun back to her computer and wrenched open her draft. "Get out."

Declan didn't move. "You know, if you'd just—"

"Out."

He held up his hands in surrender but paused at the door. "For the record? Your methodology is solid. You're overthinking the validation because you're trying to account for every possible outlier. Sometimes, you just have to trust the data."

Mara didn't answer.

The door hissed shut behind him.

Three hours later, Mara's eyes burned from staring at her screen. She'd rewritten the same paragraph four times, deleted three separate versions of her results section, and was seriously considering setting her laptop on fire.

Declan's words echoed in her head. You're overthinking it.

She groaned and slumped back in her chair. The worst part? He was right.