He asks questions without pretending he already knows the answers, which is rarer than it should be.
He's not performing confusion for attention.
He's genuinely lost and not embarrassed about it, and there's something disarming about a person who can sit in their own ignorance without flinching.
When Dr. Petrov calls time and starts going over the solution, he leans back and clicks the pink pen closed.
"Thanks. Seriously." He taps the notebook with his knuckles. "I'd still be staring at the screen if you hadn't translated."
I close my laptop halfway. "It's fine."
"I'm the worst statistician alive."
"You set up the equation right. You'll be fine."
He looks at me for a moment. Not long. Not invasive.
Not the way the woman at Starbucks looked at me.
He looks at me the way you look at someone you're seeing clearly for the first time and finding interesting.
Not like the woman at Starbucks.
Not like anyone in this town.
And my chest aches with how badly I want him to keep doing it.
"See you on Thursday?" He says it like a question even though we've both been sitting in this room three times a week for a month.
I nod, fingers resting on my laptop. "Yeah. Thursday."
He grabs his notebook, the pink feather pen, and heads for the door.
I watch him go for exactly two seconds before I stop myself.
He walks like someone who's used to being watched, but doesn't like it. Alert without being stiff. Eyes forward, posture straight.
I don't know his name, and I'm not going to ask.
Asking names means giving yours, and giving mine means watching someone's face change the second they realize who you are.
I don't want to watch his face change.
Not this one. Not the face attached to the half-grin and the honest confusion.
I pack up my laptop and leave through the door he used, taking the stairs down and out into the February air.
The rest of my day is ordinary. Two more classes. A shift at the bar from five to midnight, pouring beers for college kids who tip in coins and construction workers who tip in a decent amount of cash because they think they can get in my pants.
My boss, Gary, spends most of the shift in the back office watching football on his phone.
The other bartender, Marissa, talks enough for both of us.
I listen, I pour, I wipe down the bar, I collect my tips and close out for the night.
In the parking lot, I pull out my phone and text Mom:
Beat tonight. Rain check tomorrow?