She walks me through the distribution curve, her finger tracing the formula on her screen while I copy it into my notebook.
Her notes are clean, color-coded, organized by someone who treats chaos like a personal enemy.
Mine look like a crime scene.
"You're staring at my screen like it owes you money." She doesn't look up when she says it, but there's a warmth underneath the flatness.
"I'm trying to figure out how your handwriting looks like a font and mine looks like I wrote it during an earthquake."
"Practice."
"Or talent."
She glances at me. Quick, then away. "It's not talent. It's controlled."
The word hangs in the air between us and I want to ask what she means by it.
What a woman who color-codes her statistics notes and sits in the same seat every class and never speaks unless spoken to means when she says the word control like it's keeping her alive.
We finish the problem with two minutes to spare. She checks my work without me asking, catches an error in my second calculation, and corrects it with a tap of her pen on my notebook.
"Sign's wrong. Negative, not positive."
I fix it. "What would I do without you?"
"Fail, probably." She says it deadpan, and the grin hits my face before I can stop it.
When Petrov calls time, she closes her laptop and starts packing up.
"Same time Thursday?" I click the pink pen closed.
She pulls her bag over her shoulder. "Bring a better pen andmaybeI'll think about it."
"This pen is iconic."
"The pen is ridiculous."
"You smiled at it."
She stops moving. Looks at me for a second too long, and I watch her decide whether to deny it.
She doesn't deny it. She turns and walks out, and the back of her neck is flushed pink above her collar.
I sit in my chair for five extra seconds because my legs need a minute to remember they have a job.
I grab my notebook and the feathered pen, head for the door.
The walk across campus to the parking lot is cold.
A gust off the mountain ripping through the Mountainlair plaza hard enough to make my eyes water.
I zip my jacket over my cut, because wearing club colors on campus invites questions I don't want to answer.
I’m back at the compound by 11:40. The parking lot is full. Every officer's bike in its spot, plus a few full patches who don't usually come in on weekdays.
Something's happening.
I park, head inside, and take my place outside the chapel door.