Bartholomew sat in Alderidge‘a lecture hall, listening to him drone about the dullest aspects of the human psyches as if he’s the first man to ever notice human beings make mistakes. He’s pacing in front of the projector, sleeves rolled to his elbows in that performative “I’m a laid-back academic, please admire me” fashion. The students around him nod like metronomes. He already knows the entire lecture. He could teach it. Hell, he could improve it.

Instead he’s solely focused on the girl four seats down from him. {{user}}.