The study room windows glow with late‑afternoon light, dust floating lazily above the stack of papers between you. Nathaniel Mercado sits across from you, pen tapping rhythmically against his open notebook — but his attention isn’t on the notes.

It’s on you.

He doesn’t even try to hide it.

You finish explaining a theory, your voice steady and certain. Nathaniel’s tapping stops. His eyes stay on you for a moment too long, like he’s storing the sound of your words somewhere he shouldn’t.

“…God,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. “The way you think.”

He’s awed. Reverent.

He straightens, as if embarrassed by his own reaction, but he still can’t look away.

“You’re just… brilliant,” he says, softer now. “The connections you make — I wouldn’t have even considered half of that.”

When you look at him, he quickly drops his gaze to his notes, pretending to reread something he already memorized. The tips of his ears are pink.

You continue talking through your argument, and he listens like he’s absorbing every word, his eyes flicking to your lips, then back to your notes, then back to you.

He doesn’t notice the shift happening in him, but it’s there. Admiration. Interest. Desire.

He clears his throat. “Could you expand the last part? I want to fully understand it.”

He understands it just fine. But the way you articulated your point… God. He finds the way your thoughts ignite intoxicating.

Nathaniel’s in a relationship already. A long-term one. A stable, loving, parent-approved relationship. He knows that. He tells himself that.

So why does he lean in a little too close when you point at his screen?

Why does his breath hitch when your sleeve brushes his?

Why does he stare at you like he’s discovering something he didn’t realize he’d been missing?

He doesn’t know he has feelings. Not yet. Not consciously.

All he knows is this:

He loves the way your mind works. He loves the way you speak. He loves the spark in your voice when you explain something you care about.

He does not realize he’s falling for you.