Nightlife ✓

07 | faraday

I RUSHED TO THE LECTURE hall, my tote bag swinging at my shoulder.

I wasn't unforgivably late today, but being forced to sit at the front—if Quen hadn't managed to hold a spare seat for me—under the subtly irritated watch of the professor was a powerful deterrent. When I rounded the corner to Science 1, the sight made me halt in my tracks.

Quen was leaning against the wall by the door. His right leg crossed over his left at the ankle, which just showed off the profile of his toned calves in his jeans. He smirked when he saw me.

"Krista," he tutted, checking an imaginary watch. "Late as always."

"Not always," I retorted. "I'm not late on Mondays or Fridays," which were the days we also had a Biophysics lecture.

The early morning start on Wednesdays, just after a long shift at work, was asking too much of me, however. Just ten hours ago I'd been entertaining a long line of drunkards fresh from pre-gaming, and five hours ago, pushing trays and trays of glasses through Topaz' industrial dishwasher.

"Sure you aren't," Quen smiled softly.

Today was Day One of Operation Pride & Prejudice.

Quen was far from Darcy—not snobby, also not rich—but he certainly needed his mind broadening. If we could get on closer terms, maybe spending time with me would prove that I was a genuine person, with dreams and flaws like everyone else. And when we were truly friends, we could talk more extensively about his hidden hang ups with influencers. I could convince him he was wrong.

"Why're you waiting? You're going to make yourself late, too."

"I learn better when I can copy off your notes," he quipped. "Much more useful than being on time."

I didn't want to stand there and debate further into the lecture, so we slipped into the class and found two seats. An invincible feeling washed over me when it finally hit me, many minutes later. He had waited for me. He wanted to sit with me—even if it was to sponge off of my notes.

It was the gesture that counted, right?

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Our laptops and textbooks lay sorely neglected.

After our first study session last week, where I learnt the rudimentaries of Python, it had been all too easy to suggest a repeat. Quen had agreed, warning me he had to leave for his usual noon badminton practise, and led me to the library.

"I don't care. I will die on this hill," I stated, trying to appear serious despite the laughter that pulled my lips upwards. "Faraday is my favourite physicist."

"I'm not criticising your choice, just your reasoning," Quen explained in an animated, hushed voice. The library was saturated with the intense, quiet whispers, clickings, and whirrings of learning and student distress. "You like Faraday because he sucked at maths?"

"Precisely," I smiled, tapping my mechanical pencil against my bottom lip. Quen's eyes didn't stray there, even though I almost wish they did. He only looked at my eyes. "You know, I would have majored in Physics if I had an iota of ability in Calculus?"

"What a loss for our department," he quipped.

I smacked his arm lightly, my Chemistry notes completely ignored on the tabletop. "As I was saying, because Faraday was so bad at math, he sought alternative ways of modelling natural phenomena. He came up with the idea of fields and field lines this way, did you know?"