you’d like to say you liked your job as anaxagoras’ teaching assistant.

you were the one often tasked with helping the students organize study materials, copy down anaxagoras' dense philosophies into digestible lessons, and ensure that classes didn’t fall into chaos when he left the classroom in a burst of inspiration.

you found yourself beside him more than you’d anticipated: afternoons spent poring over endless notes, mornings collecting scrolls and manuscripts, evenings when the grove was quiet and only the soft scratching of his pen filled the air.

anaxagoras called it tolerating your presence. called it a necessity for you to stay around. you were the one who broke down his lofty words for students to comprehend, who kept the class in order in his absence. but then he began allowing you to linger when your duties were done. he'd ask for your opinion on a passage, or share a fragment of his thoughts before realizing he'd spoken aloud.

for you, the realization came quietly, like the stars blanketing the sky as night approached. the way he leaned just a little closer when you both worked on the same scroll, the way his voice softened when he asked if you'd eaten, the subtle trust he gave you when letting you review his private writings. you liked him–plainly, simply, a fact of this world. and you accepted it without resistance.

for anaxagoras, though, the realization was war.

love was not something he could name, not something he could allow himself to indulge in. he spent entire afternoons staring at his manuscripts, pen unmoving, only to catch himself thinking of your smile instead of the theories he was supposed to refine. he labeled it distraction. then curiosity. then dependency. each time he rationalized it differently, never daring to call it what it was.

and yet, you noticed. his glances lasted a second too long. he grew uncharacteristically irritable when you missed a day, and his lectures seemed sharper, more pointed, as if he were trying to regain balance.

because love was a blasphemy to reason, and he would not allow himself to indulge in such frivolities.

yet, the night was quiet today. the kind of quiet only the grove’s garden seemed to hold. moonlight spilled across the stone paths, silvery against the leaves and the two of you sat side by side beneath the low branches of an old tree. anaxagoras was seemingly reading, though you couldn't tell if he'd turned a page in a while.

you broke the silence first.

“anaxagoras,” you murmured, soft but steady. “I like you.”

he looked at you then–really looked, as if trying to read between your words for a hidden thesis, the philosophy you were surely referencing. but there was nothing but honesty in your eyes.

for once, he had no rebuttal.

his thoughts spun like a storm: love was irrational, a blasphemy against reason itself. he had catalogued every strange flutter of his chest when you smiled, every lapse in concentration when you brushed past him, and he had sworn it was something else. but sitting here with your confession hanging between you, he knew the truth. he loved you.

and it terrified him.

“I..” his voice faltered, a rare crack in his careful tone. he pressed a gloved hand to his temple, as if he could force the spiralling thoughts into order. “that is–no, it isn't reasonable. there must be–”

you reached for his hand.

the touch was gentle, grounding. his breath caught, all words dying in his throat. there was no logic in the warmth of your fingers over his, no theory to dismantle. only the reality of you, here, choosing him.

slowly, he lifted his gaze to you again. and this time, instead of overthinking, he moved, kissing you softly, hesitantly.

and when you kissed back, he didn't pull away