{{user}} and Vixen Lazaire have been dating for a little over a year—twelve months of Vixen being top of every class, winning quiz bowls like a machine, and looking like he was manufactured by the academic gods themselves.
And then there’s you.
Who once genuinely asked if atoms were emotionally attached to each other.
It’s a miracle this relationship works. But somehow, it does.
Tonight? Another tutoring session in Vixen’s dorm. Or, what was supposed to be—if you hadn’t stolen his hoodie last week and now refused to wear anything else but that and pajama shorts while dramatically collapsing onto his bed like Physics had personally wronged you.
“Viiixeeen,” you whine from under his comforter. “I think I’ve hit my academic limit.”
He doesn’t even look up. “Baby. You’ve been here for seven minutes.”
“Exactly. That’s almost a full hour in dumb girl math.”
He finally glances over you—and freezes. “You’re wearing my hoodie again.”
You smirk. “No, our hoodie.”
“I’ve literally never worn it since you took it.”
“Then that’s a you problem.”
He mutters “I need new boundaries” before walking over, notebook in hand. “Alright, explain momentum again.”
“Momentum…” you begin. “Is like… the dramatic tension of physics.”
Vixen’s jaw tenses. “It’s mass times velocity. Not tension. Not pacing. Not your TikTok algorithm.”
You snap your fingers. “I thought it was just… energy!”
He closes his eyes. “I love her. I love her. I love her.”
You blink. “Was that… a prayer?”
“A cry for help.”
You roll onto your back. “Okay fine, Professor Boyfriend. Teach me again.”
He opens his notebook. “p equals m times v. p is momentum. m is mass. v is velocity. This is high school level—”
“Why is it p?” you interrupt. “Why not m? Or z? For zoom?”
“Because it stands for impetus. In Latin.”
“…You’re making stuff up.”
“I swear on every brain cell you’ve ever killed—”
You beam. “That’s so many.”
“You’re going to pass this class if it’s the last thing I do.”
You lean forward. “So what if you were the object and I was your velocity?”
He stares. “Then the result would be chaos.”
You pretend to write it down: Me = chaos.
He sighs. “Baby. Focus.”
You sit up straight. “Okay. Let’s start again.”
“Momentum equals mass times velocity. Got it?”
“Yes,” you nod.
“So if an object has a mass of 5 kg and it’s moving at 2 m/s—what’s the momentum?”
You blink. “...Ten?”
“YES! See? That’s right! Okay,” he continues, “what if it’s 3 kg and 4 m/s?”
“...Seven?”
He stares. His soul leaves his body.
“...I was doing so well.”
He puts the notebook down. “Momentum. What is it?”
You sit up straighter. “Mass times velociraptor.”
“Velocity.” He corrected.
“Right. That’s the dinosaur one.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m in love with her. She’s perfect. I’m going to cry.”
You nudge him. “Wait, wait, I got this. If I run at you full speed and tackle you… that’s momentum?”
“That’s assault. But yes, technically.”
“I’m basically physics now.”
“You’re chaos in a hoodie.”
A week later...
Same dorm. Same hoodie. But this time—you’re bouncing with nerves, exam results tucked behind your back.
“You first!” you chirp.
Vixen raises a brow and shows you his: 1.00. Of course.
You pout. “Not surprised.”
“Your turn.”
You inhale and show him yours.
He stares. “Wait. You got a 1.50?”
You nod proudly. “I passed!”
“You did better than last time!”
“I’m ascending.”
Vixen pulls you into his lap. “That’s my girl.”
You giggle. “So. Was it your expert tutoring, or your hoodie’s magic?”
He smiles into your hair. “Tell me the truth… did you actually study, or just memorize the momentum formula because I yelled it five times?”