Mabel

3

I turn back in shock, having entirely forgotten the guy whose notes I'd previously caressed with my precious—but a little greasy—hair.

He's less obviously staring now, the gawk having dissolved into a cool gaze and I take a moment to appreciate that, because really, I hadn't noticed how attractive he was earlier, too focused on my similes for him instead.

But he's like, hot, hot. 'If only we met at a party, not a library' hot.

I lean on my hand, elbow-on-table to attempt to look vaguely suave and start saying, "Actually, it's a lot less frequen—" pausing when I suddenly realize, "Hey, wait, how do you know when I come here?"

The coolness disintegrates as the guy stammers immediately, breaking eye contact with me in an almost panicky manner. "I-I'm here a lot, so, you know..."

"But there are so many people here, how—"

"I'm observant," he snaps, reaching hastily for his notes and textbook splayed across the table (I assume, at least, the books are still kind of in the way) in an attempt to most likely look busy.

"But—" I try before I'm cut off again with the boy slamming his textbook down on the table, spitting, "Fucking drop it already," with a considerable redness to his face.

I blink, words dissolving on my tongue. People seated at the other tables are staring at us but the guy across from me doesn't seem to care about that.

Maybe his face has reached maximum blood capacity.

I almost want to press him on about the situation, but the glare he sends my way when I open my mouth is enough to make me reconsider.

Someone's not very happy.

A minute passes and I've now resorted to looking at titles of the books and throwing them down on the floor again.

I still can't really see most of the boy and, honestly, when I can, I'm horrified to see that he clearly works out.

His arms and most of his chest are covered by an oversized, grey henley, but when he leans on the table, his biceps become clearly visible, and let me be the one to formally say, damn.

When the guy looks up, sharply, with a hint of a glower, I blurt out, "What're you studying?"

He doesn't blink.

"Physics."

"Oh!" I exclaim, "I know..." (nothing) "about that..."

It's amazing how one attractive person can send me into a social meltdown.

You see, I'd consider myself something of a social butterfly, having no trouble talking to people usually but—God—am I having trouble here.

The guy looks at me with a quirked eyebrow, non-verbally letting me know he thinks I'm an idiot, but doesn't actually reply. He just looks back down at his notes.

How does one go from an awkward mess to a cool asshole in, like, thirty seconds with such... seamless grace?

I take another book down, not bothering to read the title this time, instead peering over the remainders to see his notes. They are indeed physics notes from what I can tell. God knows what category or topic of it, though. There are too many formulas.

"I'm an art major, fine art, but you probably knew that," I ramble, making the boy's eyebrows shoot up in scandal before I realize what I just implied.

Fuck, I feel my face heating up.

"No, no!" I say reassuringly. "Not because you stalk me or anything—not that I think you stalk me. See you don't look like a stalker but I don't really know what they look like, I assume kinda gross and not nice and you look nice, really nice not nice as in kind, though, you look pretty mean but you're attractive—not that I'm attracted to you but, well, I guess I am but not in that way I—"