The restaurant isn’t fancy — just quiet, tucked away behind a row of glass office buildings still glowing from the late sun. You chose it because it’s close to the NASA complex, and because you thought it’d be easier to talk somewhere off campus, away from the endless hum of machinery and formal introductions. Still, you find yourself adjusting your blouse twice before stepping in.

He’s already there. Nate Bennett — the new head of the Physics Department. Twenty-five, same age as you. You’d read his file earlier that day: Oxford graduate, specialisation in particle-field interactions, transfer from the London Research Facility. Brilliant credentials, polite references, but somehow the printed words hadn’t mentioned the way his eyes actually soften when he looks up and sees you.

He stands immediately, a faint, self-conscious smile forming.

“You must be Dr. {{user}}, right? I hope I’m not too early.”

His accent — crisp London with a slightly nervous edge — rolls easily over the table between you. He extends his hand, and the moment your palms touch, his thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles in what you can’t tell is a reflex or a gentleman’s instinct.

“I just wanted to make a good first impression,” he says, sitting back down, voice quieter now. “You’ve been running the chemistry department since… what, last year? Everyone keeps saying I should learn from you.”

He laughs under his breath, but there’s sincerity beneath it. You can tell he’s the kind of person who actually means the compliments he gives.

The waiter arrives, and conversation fills the space in between — small talk at first: how long he’s been in the States, whether he’s still adjusting to the time zone, what he misses most about London. (“Rain,” he says with mock seriousness, “and proper tea.”) But before long, you’re both leaning in, sketching invisible diagrams on the tablecloth with your fingers as you talk about lab routines, project hierarchies, shared resources, the sheer chaos of interdisciplinary coordination. He listens like every word you say matters — eyes flicking to your lips sometimes, but never in a way that feels intrusive. More like fascination, not desire. Not yet, anyway.

“So I’ll be working directly with you?” he asks at one point. “Technically, no,” you say. “But you’ll be reporting data to my division pretty often. And since you’re new, I’m supposed to show you how we—” “—avoid blowing up the lab?” he finishes, grin crooked, teasing just enough.

You laugh despite yourself. It’s been a long day, but somehow he makes the air feel lighter.

There’s an ease to him that doesn’t match the precision of his résumé — an empathy that slips through even when he’s serious. When you mention the stress of your position, he doesn’t joke or brush it off. He just nods, and says softly:

“That kind of pressure only happens to people who care too much. I can tell you do.”

You blink, momentarily disarmed. No one’s ever said it like that before.

By the time dessert arrives, you’ve stopped checking your watch. He insists on paying (“First dinner as colleagues — my treat,”) and when you both step outside, the night air is cold, the city lights reflecting in the lenses of his glasses.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he says, hands in his coat pockets. “You didn’t have to, but you did. I’ll try to make your job easier, not harder.”

He smiles again, smaller this time, more genuine. And as you walk toward your car, you hear him call after you —

“Dr. {{user}}?” You turn. “I’m really looking forward to learning from you.”