Writer's Note: Thank you for your comments! They are much appreciated. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts! : )

They started dating in October.

A thick haze of heat rose up from the red brick walkway, and it felt as though the leaves of the boxelder tree were more likely to singe and smoke than turn to their golden oranges and fiery yellows with the ushering in of fall. It was hot—far too hot for the first weekend of October—and the film of sweat that clung to Henry caused his jeans to chafe with every step he took towards Alderman Library. Why he'd decided to martyr himself to the somewhat professional look of a grad student, he didn't know, not when he could have found at least a semblance of comfort in shorts and a tee like everybody else. He would have gone back to his apartment and changed too, were it not for the more pressing matter at hand—Elizabeth.

Their conversation had petered out pretty quickly after the boarding school revelation. Elizabeth seemed determined to continue with their discussion as planned, but whether she was genuinely interested in hearing his thoughts or whether she was just making a point, he didn't know. Either way, he was too distracted with replaying their every interaction in his mind, looking for the clues, the subtle hints that would have told him that she was part of that crowd, and perhaps growing tired of her questions being met with semi-coherent answers at best and awkward silences at worst, she downed the last of her coffee, glanced at her watch and suddenly remembered a paper that was due. I'll see you next week, she said and tugged the strap of her satchel onto her shoulder. He nodded and flashed her a taut smile, Take care. He had a pile of marking to get through and his own papers to write, but he ordered another coffee instead and carried on with the mental appraisal, as though if only he were to look long enough or deep enough he would find a way to fit her into that box, along with the Josh Carmichaels of the world. But no matter how hard he tried, she refused to conform. All he could see was Elizabeth. Elizabeth traits. Elizabeth attributes. Elizabeth ways of mind. She was different. Stubbornly so. I think you're going to like her, Professor Peterson had said, and the more he thought about her over the next few days, about their after-class discussions, their occasional banter, the way she kept him on his toes, the more he realised that it was true: he did like her. Not like her like her—she was still his student, after all. (And any thoughts about her long legs and short skirts or how when her debating got particularly heated her cheeks would pinken and her voice would turn gravelly and low were purely biological.) But he liked her as a person, he liked her company, he liked her barbed edges and the way that she was quick with a smile. Perhaps part of the allure of becoming a TA—aside from the much needed boost to his income—was the thought that his pupils would defer to him, and maybe for once he wouldn't have to fight to prove that his upbringing, his financial need to join the Marines, his steelworker father and thrift store clothes, didn't make him inferior to all the other students. But Elizabeth didn't defer to anyone. Rumour had it she'd even raised her hand in the middle of one of Professor Peterson's lectures to offer an unsolicited correction. She was this wonderfully frustratingly awkward challenge of a person. And he liked that she challenged him. He wanted her to keep on challenging him. But what if his comments came between them?

He strode up the stones steps outside the library and towards the set of double doors that stood between the two central Tuscan columns—the white plaster almost achingly bright as it reflected the midday sun. The shade inside the entrance hall brought instant relief from the heat, and his pace slowed for a moment, allowing him to savour the tingle of cool air that washed over him.

When he entered the main reading room, his gaze found her immediately, sat in her usual spot on the far side, at the desk beneath the tall arched window. He walked along the aisle between the two bench desks that traversed the length of the room, weaving in and out of the chairs that stuck out on either side and dodging the undergrad who rose from one of those chairs and stepped into the aisle, his nose still buried in a book. His gaze remained fixed on Elizabeth. She hunched forward over her desk, the fountain pen in her hand flowing across the page. Her long hair was piled up into a messy bun, leaving her neck exposed, except for at the nape, where a few short wisps had escaped and formed delicate curls. Every so often she would look up at one of the five textbooks that surrounded her, study it for a minute or so while tapping the end of her pen against her bottom lip, and then return to writing, her pace a touch quicker than before, as though her hand sought to make up for the time it had lost in the pause.

He came to a stop at the end of her desk, close enough that she must have been able to see him out of the corner of her eye—the way her shoulders crept up a fraction and the way her pen stuttered on the page suggested that she was aware of his presence, but she didn't look around.

He waited a moment longer, watching her, and then grabbed the chair from the adjacent desk, pivoted it around to face her and sat down. "Hi."

She cast him a sideways glance—"Hi."—and then returned to her writing.

"Do you think we could talk?"

"I'm sure we could…" Her tone dragged, her attention still on the words that spilled out from the nib of her pen and flooded across the page. "We might get thrown out, though. This is a library after all." She shot him another look, and from the glint in her eye he got the sense that she was teasing—mostly. Then she returned to the page.

He paused, his lips parted. Did that mean she was prepared to talk or not?

Then he ventured, "If you're busy, I can come back later…"

"No." She finished the sentence she was writing, capped her pen and chucked it down atop one of the textbooks, and with a long stream of a sigh, she leant back in her chair. After a moment's silence, she lolled her head to the side and looked at him. "I have a paper due for Peterson next week, and I wanted to read up on Boethius, but of course Peterson mentioned his admiration of 'The Consolation of Philosophy' in his last lecture, and now there's a wait list, which means I'm having to make do with the books that nobody else wants." She swept her hand towards the array of books that fanned out across her desk, as though she were shooing them away. Then she looked to him again. A soft—if a little tired—smile played at the corners of her lips. "I could use a break."

After Elizabeth had written a note explicitly threatening anyone who dared touch her books or steal her place and had tucked her essay notes away from prying eyes, she followed him through the gauntlet of desks and chairs and out into the lobby.

A wall of heat hit them the moment they stepped outside and she plucked at the front of her UVA tee, fanning herself with the pockets of air she created. She looked him up and down and frowned at his jeans. "Aren't you hot?"

He shrugged and prayed she wouldn't see the sweat patches on his shirt. "A little."

She gave him a look that made him feel pretty certain she knew that he was lying, and then she motioned to a bench in the shade beneath one of the boxelder trees.

"I'm in Old Dorms—Hancock," she said as they strolled side by side towards the bench. "I swear to God they've made it into a sweatbox just to drive us all out of there and into the library."

He chuckled. "I was in Bonnycastle first year. I'm not sure that was much better."

"Well, it certainly can't get much worse. I literally had to peel the sheet off of myself this morning." She sank down onto the bench, at an angle so that she would be facing him, and she clutched her knees. She waited for him to take a seat beside her. "So, what's up?"

"I wanted to apologise."

"Okay, sure." Her expression held level for a second or two, completely unfazed, and then it collapsed into a puzzled frown. "What for?"

His gaze lowered to the dusty earth that surrounded the bench, and he shook his head as he spoke. "For the other day. For what I said and for the way that I acted."

"Oh…you mean when you said that I bought my way into college, and that I was stuck-up and spoilt, and then you went all moody and brooding?"

His head snapped up. "I never called you stuck-up—"

"I'm a math major. I extrapolated."

"—and I wasn't talking about you. I see how hard you work and how seriously you take your studies."

"So it's just all the other kids with money who went to posh boarding schools who don't deserve to be here?" Her tone and the quirk of her lips said that she was teasing him—again—but there was a slight edge to the comment.

Then again, there was always a slight edge to her. He couldn't figure out if she was genuinely toying with him or if it was just a defence mechanism designed to disguise the fact that he had offended her.

"Expressing my opinion like that wasn't professional—"

Her smirk grew even sharper. "Good thing you're not a real teacher."

He let out a huff and scratched at the back of his head. It felt like no matter what he said, he couldn't win. And if only he could go back to the coffee shop and un-speak those words, he would.

He met her gaze and hoped his sincerity would reach her. "I'm sorry. How can I make it up to you?"

She gave a stilted shrug. "Nothing to make up for."

He eyed her. He looked for any trace of annoyance. He found nothing. "So, you're really not mad at me?"

"No."

"Not even silently mad?"

She tilted her head to one side and her smile blossomed. "Yeah…I don't really do 'silently mad'. If I were pissed at you, you'd definitely know about it." She looked at him, bathing him in the warmth of that smile. "We're good." Then she slid her hand onto the bench between them and leant in slightly, a twinkle in her eyes. "Next time, the muffin's on you." She tapped her fingers against the wood, and rose from her seat.

Before he knew it, she was already walking back across the lawn and towards the steps that led up to the library entrance, leaving behind her just the faint scent of black rose and ylang ylang, a hint of sweat, and a mildly dazed feeling. He wasn't sure he would have been so forgiving were the roles reversed, and given the way she refused to yield so much as an inch on any argument in class, he had no doubt that she could have held a grudge if she wanted to. He was glad that she had let it go, though—especially seeing as how, in the moment when she had slid her hand towards him and rested it on the bench between them and he found himself both thinking she might and wishing she would rest it on his thigh instead, he realised that he would go to embarrassing lengths trying to make it up to her.

He still might.

"Elizabeth," he called after her.

She turned around and paced backwards towards the library, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun.

"Hancock, right?"

"Right," she called back.

"I'll leave my copy of Boethius for you in the lobby."

oOoOo

That evening, when the sun had already begun to dip below the horizon, leaving behind it skies suffused with an apricot pink-and-orange glow, and the heat of the day had softened into a perpetual smoulder, Henry made his way over to Hancock, his well-thumbed copy of 'The Consolation of Philosophy' in hand. Outside, a group of five or six guys, all in long shorts and tank tops, had gathered in a loose circle on the lawn and were throwing a frisbee back and forth. Henry strode past them and towards the front door—somebody had jammed it open with a cork-soled flip-flop. He had considered jotting down a quick note to slip inside the book suggesting that Elizabeth join him for coffee the following morning if she wanted to discuss, he had gotten as far as drafting a couple of off-the-cuff lines and finding a fresh piece of paper to write them up, but then he had thought better of it.

It wasn't that he didn't want to ask her—he did. But he was very aware of how it might look, and it felt as though there was a definite line between her suggesting that they continue their after-class discussion in a coffee shop and him secreting notes into books. And he didn't want her—or anyone else—to get the wrong idea. She was his still student, after all.

A block of wooden mail cubbies were mounted on the far wall of the lobby. Henry headed to the left-hand side of the unit and scanned the shelves for her name.

Aaronson…Abbot…Abbott…Abernathy…Abington…Abrahams…Ackerman…Adams!

He was about to slot the book onto the shelf, when there came the creak of a swing door opening and the tap of heels against the linoleum, followed by—

"Hey, is that the Boethius?"

At Elizabeth's voice, he lowered the book and turned towards her. "Yeah, I was just—"

But then he caught sight of her, and all thought stopped.

Her usual combination of short skirt (or short shorts) coupled with an oversized tee and faded blue Chucks had gone, replaced with a pair of black patent high heels and a red dress that hugged her at the waist and flared down to just above mid-thigh. She had pinned her hair up in an elegant twist, once again leaving her neck exposed, and his gaze lingered on the soft curve of her throat, that tract of creamy skin, and the golden pendant that rested against the hollow between her collarbones.

Elizabeth gave an awkward smile. "What?"

He blinked and shook his head. "Nothing. Sorry. I just…I…You look…"

The silence stretched.

Her awkward smile turned anxious and her fingers fumbled over nothing at her sides. "I'm really hoping there's something positive at the end of that sentence, because I gotta tell you, the whole dress, make-up, hair thing really isn't my deal and I feel like there's a pretty good chance I look more than a little ridiculous—something along the lines of a first-grader playing dress up."

'No, not at all, you just look different, that's all.' That's what he ought to say, and brush his momentary lapse aside with a shake of the head. Then he would hand her the book and wish her a good evening, the usual pleasantries, see you next week in class. But as he stared at her and found that the confidence synonymous with her had been stripped away, leaving her looking both exquisite and vulnerable in that outfit, the truth tumbled from his lips instead, and he couldn't say that he cared: he wanted her to hear it—to know it. "You look really beautiful."

He held her gaze and waited for her to tease him, to call him out with another quick-tongued remark—he probably deserved as much.

But she just smiled at him, and all that self-consciousness faded, as though with four simple words he had enabled every last muscle in her body to relax.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the book, anything to distract himself from the wave of heat that threatened to crest through his cheeks and the way the throb of his pulse had become more pronounced. "Anyway, you can keep it as long as you like. Just hand it back in class whenever you're done. And I'm sorry about the notes in the margins. Hopefully they're not too distracting."

"Thank you." She continued to smile at him as she took the book, and he couldn't be sure if she was referring to the book or to what he had said.

"No problem." His lips tweaked at one corner, a flinch of a smile. He moved as though to turn towards the door, but then stopped. Just mention the coffee shop. Just tell her you're always free to discuss. She was the one who suggested a 'next time' to repay her for the muffin, so it's not like she'll be averse. He massaged the knots at the back of his neck, and his gaze dipped to the floor between them. "Look, I know your paper's due next week, so if there's anything you wanted to—"

"Hey, Lizzie. You ready?" A voice came from the doorway.

Henry's hand dropped to his side and he turned towards the entrance, just in time to catch sight of Josh Carmichael striding in through the open door. Somehow his go-to look of navy polo shirt and beige chinos always made Henry think of summers spent yachting or idling around a country club.

Josh gave Elizabeth a cursory glance up and down. "Cute dress." Then he jerked his head towards the door. "I'm double-parked, so let's go."

Elizabeth offered Henry an almost apologetic smile, and she brushed past him as she stepped towards the mail cubbies. She slid the book onto her shelf, and as she passed him again, her fingertips grazed his elbow. "I'll see you on Tuesday."

"Tuesday," Henry repeated, at a loss for anything else to say. Then, realising he sounded more than a little gormless, he forced a smile and added, "Well, have a nice evening." Which in turn only made him sound like even more of an idiot, and he wished he hadn't said anything at all.

"Nice seeing you, Herbert." Josh tossed the words over his shoulder, and as he wrapped an arm around Elizabeth's waist and steered her towards the door, he dipped in towards her ear and murmured, "Is he bothering you?"

"Of course not," Elizabeth replied in a hushed tone. "He's just lending me a book."

"Isn't that what libraries are for?"

Henry watched the two of them as they walked away along the path outside, Elizabeth teetering slightly in her heels as Josh's hand at her waist continued to propel her forward. The glass case that covered the face of Josh's watch—a watch Henry felt pretty sure cost more than his parents' house—threw off a glint of the evening light, and it struck him: Elizabeth might not be like the rest of them, but she was still one of them, and he was not. He was just her TA, a source of information, nothing more.

But when she twisted around to look at him, almost stumbling with Josh's perpetual forward propulsion, and her gaze locked on his, he knew that what Professor Peterson had said was true: He liked her. He liked her enough for a pang of jealousy to hit him as he watched her walking away with somebody else. He liked her enough to wish that he was the guy lucky enough to take her out, especially when she looked as stunning as that. He liked her, maybe even liked her liked her, but definitely he liked her.

More than he should.