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Your eyes dragged from one weathered scroll of paper to the next, then to the intricate bronzes displayed. The overhead fluorescents hum at a frequency just enough to fuel slight annoyance. Under any other circumstances, you may have been enjoying yourself at this moment, scanning over intricate panoramas of romanticized depictions of life far off in the East, pre-dating your own by thousands of years. The attention to detail, the intentionality of each imperfect brushstroke blending with soft blushes of color truly were wondrous. And, again, under any circumstances, you would be able to truly marvel at the works in front of you. But, regrettably, your head hadn’t been screwed on all the way when it had mattered most.
The second semester of your sophomore year had only just begun, hardly past the six-week hump. Already up to your neck in piles of work, papers and midterms galore, you couldn’t help but feel the dull ache of stress. Determined to graduate a semester or two early, saving yourself from piling on any more unnecessary student loan debt, you'd taken the maximum amount of credit hours allowed. Finances were a touchy subject, your college experience revolving around money. Perhaps this reason was also partially why you pushed yourself so hard to succeed. Was there any point in driving yourself into thousands of dollars of debt if you couldn’t excel in simple college classes? Hence, how you found yourself in this scenario.
As of lately, you haven't been sleeping well, crushed by the weight of your academics, as well as your job, often not returning to your apartment until midnight. Your typically pristine writing assignments had fallen short as a result, thwarting your grade to a measly 87%. Any other student would be fine with this fate. After all, a B isn’t bad at all. But not you. You’d always been an over-achiever of a student, guts stinging at the sight of any number less than a 90%. Not to mention, the class had made it its duty to ensure your miserable state this semester. You hadn’t realized your major-required history seminar this semester was an ancient Chinese section. While the professor was clearly well-equipped with the necessary knowledge and passion to teach the course, the content itself failed to grasp your attention. You were an Americanist, for God’s sake! But it was the only section fitting into your schedule, and you figured you should broaden your horizons just this once, so you’ve regrettably stuck it out since, the drop deadline for classes a distant memory now.
The extra credit opportunity came at just the right moment, your ears perking up at the sound of an easy, outside of class practice with primary sourcing. Simple enough, just go to an exhibit stopping in town showcasing ancient art, and write about them. You’d get to relax and entertain your creative side, and hopefully fluff your grade back up to a preferable 90%. But, knowing your luck, things couldn’t have gone any worse. Your vegetarian roommate cooked up something fearsome for the night’s shared dinner, leaving your stomach empty and mind irate, the dreaded "hangriness" coursing throughout your veins as you walked to your bus stop. Ah, the bus stop. What had once been a free, reliable mode of public transportation, which you applauded yourself performatively for participating in, had now become nonexistent due to driver strikes. Bus hours had been reduced to nonexistent, and without your trusty car which you had begrudgingly been forced to retire (to be fair, it was coming up on its thirty-fourth birthday), you were left with no reliable mode of transportation but your own two feet.
So, with an empty stomach and mild resentment towards the absent bus, you journeyed two miles east of your beloved, comforting apartment, all for some lousy extra credit points. The inhospitable mid-March cold nipped bitterly at the tip of your nose. You should have brought your stupid scarf. Finally, shivering and fatigued, you step into the exhibit, which is almost empty, save for a few familiar faces from class.
One Zeke Yeager emerged into your field of sight, a junior and fellow history major, who had intrigued you since his tufts of blonde hair and well-groomed beard blessed your vision at the start of the semester. He was a bit older than the rest of your fellow peers in the seminar, having taken a gap year or two prior to his enrollment in university. Zeke was rather easy on the eyes, his tired blue eyes veiled by light brown lashes teased you from behind his round-rimmed glasses, not dissimilar to your own frames. His sturdy frame and aura of maturity drew him to you immediately, culminating in a silent yearning for all 50 minutes you were forced to sit in a room with him. However, you figured someone like that– older, smart, painfully handsome would never go for a girl so plagued by shyness that she’d be unable to contribute more than a sentence at a time in class discussions. He was smart, so smart. Leaps and bounds more than you, you supposed every time his lips graced your ears with his superb analyses of reading material, words drawn out by his homely, hardy voice that made you covertly squeeze your thighs together.
You’d taken moments to observe each of the unique illustrations, your focus wavering with each passing moment. You try to scribble whatever discernable, academic bullshit you can pull together, hoping it will be enough to appease your professor. Your mind inevitably wanders back to Zeke. He probably doesn't even need the extra credit, you scoff internally. He’s just here out of genuine curiosity and appreciation for the subject matter. Lucky. Your eyes linger on his frame, long fingers delicately tracing notes on the paintings into a small leatherbound journal before he looks up– right at you. He pauses, then closes the journal. Then, he approaches you, expressing a polite smile. You flash him a panicked, flustered mess of a look back.
“Hey, it’s Zeke! From Chinese?” He waves softly, stopping a few feet in front of you, waiting for your response.
“Oh, yeah, of course.” You manage, the words coming off more dismissive and rude if anything. You think this is the first time he’s ever directly addressed you. Your heart squeezes giddily at the thought. You’d never gotten this good of a look at his handsome features thus far, usually resorting to admiring him from across the room. But now, up close, you see the pale freckles delicately sprinkled across his face, kissing the frames of glasses. You push your own up, your avoidant gaze finally coming to meet his.
“Sorry–... That, uh... Didn’t come out right. What I meant was… I do indeed recognize you from class. Of course I do, Zeke. You’re like, a model student.” You unconsciously praise him, mentally chiding yourself for sounding like some middle school fangirl.
He laughs gently at the notion, eyes crinkling along the faint crow’s feet he’d developed with age. “Well, I wouldn’t take that much credit, but I’m flattered nonetheless. Say, you don’t usually have a lot to contribute, right? Why is that?” He starts, and her face flushes in response. Before her soft lips can part to defend, or more so, provide a half-assed excuse, he interrupts.
“What you do have to say, on the rare occasion when you feel like gracing with your insight, is good. Seriously. You’re an intelligent girl, you know. It’s a shame, really, gatekeeping all that wisdom in that pretty little head of yours.” He remarks with a small smirk, going about the subject so casually, flirtatious comment and all.
You, by comparison, don’t possess the same mental tact that he’s been so graciously blessed with. You look back down at the ground, hear pounding against your ribcage. “I, uh… Didn’t really think anyone noticed.. But t-thanks for that, Zeke. It means a lot coming from someone like you..” You barely manage to reply, the assurances from him of all people being enough to make you dizzy.
He beams down at her clemently, eyes raking over the sight of her low-hung head, the way she shakes ever so slightly with nerves. It’s amusing, a woman like her, a pleasant face and an even better mind, when she opted to share what was going on inside of it, reduced to a puddle of shyness when faced with him– a normal guy. “Well, I do. Notice you, that is. So please, share out more! Our peers have a lot to learn from you.” He encourages softly. “What do you think of the exhibit?”
“U-um, it’s cool, really. They were really good artists, for their time, y’know?” She remarks awkwardly. “They had a good sense of colors, I think... And the stylization is mind-blowing, of course…” She continues, trying to seem at least a tiny bit cerebral. “Sorry, my mind is elsewhere. I came in a bad mood, so… I’ve been having a bit of trouble focusing on the exhibit. But anyways–... What do you think of it?”
Zeke’s eyebrow quirks, smile falling to a more neutral expression. “Oh? Bad day, huh?” He pries gently. She was hoping he wouldn’t.
His words are met with a quiet sigh, one of someone who’s clearly worn out. “Something like that. I don’t know. I had to walk all the way here from my apartment because of the bus strike, and I didn’t get to eat dinner before I left, and–... Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to like, dump that on you. Let me stop talking about myself.” She cuts herself off.
“It’s fine. I asked. No dinner? And assuming you live near campus, that’s a two mile walk at least.” He figures, voice tinged with surprise. “You’re not a freshman, right? Don't you have a car?”
She sighs again, shoulders slumping even more at the thought of her car, ruminating on it like a dear loved one that had passed. “I had to scrap her. Haven’t quite finished saving up for a new one. So, yeah…” You admit bashfully, clearly embarrassed by her struggles.
Zeke hums softly. “I see. Pretty bad timing, huh? Especially with the bus strikes.” His long fingers come up to scratch at his ear, golden strands of hair touching the base of it. “How are you getting home then?”
You shrug, looking off at one of the bronzes. “Walk there, I assume.”
He clicks his tongue, shaking head, crossing his big arms over his built chest. “That far, at this hour? That’s an accident waiting to happen. Let me drive you home. And you said you didn’t eat? We can make a quick stop for food, too. My treat.” He offers, voice softening slightly.
You can't help but meet his gracious proposal with prudence, and guilt more than anything. You hated to ask anything of anyone ever, constantly spending yourself dry to save face in front of others. Although, getting food and even getting to touch the interior of the illustrious Zeke's car, to breathe the same air as him in a confined space was like a dream come true for you. Why was he even offering to a nobody in one of his classes? As much as you wanted to accept, to grow closer with the man that had captivated you all semester, you couldn’t muster up the bravery to.
“That’s nice of you to offer, but I’m okay… I wouldn’t want to impose.” You explain politely, giving an awkward, sympathetic smile up to him. Worst comes to worst, you’d spend what little money left and take an Uber home, if you felt inclined. Although you couldn’t help but daydream about what Zeke had just asked, the idea was more terrifying than anything.
Zeke frowns at the refusal, sighing softly. “Please, I insist. Like I said, it could be dangerous out there. Sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, but I promise I’m not a creep or anything.” He raises his hands defensively, trying to lure your guard down. Your cheeks instantly flush, and you suddenly fall deeper into a pit of guilt.
“N-no! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give off the impression I felt that way… I trust you, Zeke, I just… Would feel bad if you wasted gas money on a random classmate. But, you're right. It is late, so… I guess I’ll take you up on your offer?” You scratch at the flaking skin of your cuticle, a nervous habit you’d picked up years ago.
“There you go. I promise it’ll be fun. And I’m a good driver, if it’s of any reassurance to you. Do you have anywhere specific you want to eat?” His lips perk up, tucking his leather journal into the saddlebag slung over his front. You shake your head silently, closing your own notebook, tucking the pen you’d brought into the pocket of your dark-wash jeans, following him out of the exhibit to the desolate parking lot where his small SUV sat stagnant between the white lines of the spot. You stand off to the side of the passenger seat, waiting patiently for him to unlock the car, fingers gently gripping the spiral of your notebook, cool metal sinking into your skin. The car unlocks with a quick flash of the headlights, and you climb in, buckling silently and placing the notebook over your lap, fingers still clutching the spiral. Your body language is tight, uncomfortable. Comparatively, Zeke slips into the driver’s seat with ease, leaning back in the chair as his foot rests upon the brake, starting the car. They ride off in silence, only the soft lull of the radio drifting through the tense air of the car.
They settle on a popular sandwich shop near campus which stayed open later than other restaurants in the area. He pays for both sandwiches, much to your dismay, but you knew there was no sense in arguing with him. He was firm in his stance, gently reassuring you that it was fine, and that he’d let you foot the bill “next time.” Next time, funny, you scoff internally. They slide into a booth near the back of the empty restaurant, the worn leather squeaking as they settle across from one another. You rest your hands atop the faux wooden table, absentmindedly scratching at your cuticles again as you await his next words. “Hm. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date.” He remarks casually, seemingly teasing you.
You narrow your eyes slightly, trying to regulate the heat rising to your cheeks. “Date? I didn’t know that’s what this was.” She mutters loud enough for him to hear, feigning indifference. Was he seriously flirting? There’s no way he was. Obviously just a performative man trying to get some. You wouldn’t fall for it. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. What you sincerely hope for yourself. But alas, you didn’t have a strong resolve. You’d fallen into the hands of a fair share of desperate college guys due to a reciprocated feeling of desperation, and each time was more embarrassing than the last. You think you’d learn your lesson by now, no?
Zeke simpers gently, resting his bearded chin atop his fist propped on the table, eyes softening at the woman across from him. “What else could this possibly be?” He teases further shamelessly.
You cross your arms, sighing and averting your gaze once again. “I don’t know. You buying me dinner out of pity?”
The apples of his cheeks shift up as his smile widens, eyes closing as he shakes his head gently. “You’re mistaken. In case I wasn’t clear before, I’d really like for this to be a date. If that’s alright with you.”
Your forehead wrinkles in conjunction with your furrowed brows. “Of course you weren’t clear… Offering to give someone a ride home isn’t the same as asking a girl out.”
“Sorry. Let me take you out.”
“We’re already out.”
“So, this is a date?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you said we’re out, didn’t you?”
You did, didn’t you… He won. No point in arguing. You weren’t sure why you were being so combative. You liked Zeke. You wanted this to happen! Why were you so insistent on self-sabotaging?
“For such a shy girl, you’ve got quite an attitude.” Zeke comments observantly.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not in the slightest.”
You give the smallest smile before their sandwiches are delivered to the table. You’re quick to unwrap your sandwich, forgetting just how hungry you were prior to leaving your apartment. You prefer to eat in silence, but after getting a few bites into the sandwich, Zeke speaks up.
“So, how do you like Chinese?” He starts, biting into his sandwich as he waits for your reply. You sigh, pressing your lips together, waiting to fully swallow your food.
“It’s not my favorite, to be honest. Don’t get me wrong, the professor is great, but I’m not interested in the subject matter. And the readings are a lot. I really only took the section of the class because it happened to fit in my schedule, not because I’m actually interested in Chinese history.” You admit with a shrug, looking down at the table. He nods agreeably as you speak, eyes boring intently into you.
“You know what? That’s fair. It definitely isn’t a class for everyone. But you do good, I think. Like what you said the other day, about those Zhou bronzes. You should seriously speak up more.” He explains, eyebrows arching a bit.
You shrug in response, biting your sandwich. “I don't know. I feel like everything I contribute is just surface level. The class makes me feel stupid. We’re outside of class, so how about we don’t talk about class?” You defend, trying to change the subject.
“Sure.” He’s amicable, at least. You discuss random nonsense for the remaining duration of dinner. You find out he has a younger brother, that he played baseball in his youth, that his car you’d been blessed with earlier is named after his favorite childhood toy. He’s really not so intimidating up close like this. Why had you been so scared? He’s just a man, after all. A really handsome one, sure, but a normal guy at the end of the day. You’re happy you decided to take a risk just this once, which now leads you here– sitting in Zeke’s passenger seat as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment complex. You smile, thanking him politely for dinner and the ride, unbuckling yourself and grabbing your notebook. He returns the gesture, waving before stopping you for a moment.
You look at him curiously, hand on the car door, ready to exit. He grabs your hand by the wrist, softly whisking it away from the door. With a tender smolder, he kisses the pulse of your wrist before subtly leaning forward, placing his soft pink lips atop of yours. Zeke’s not like other men you’ve kissed before– clumsy, invasive, foul to think about… He’s gentle, experienced. You certainly won’t cringe when reminiscing about this moment. You don’t even mind the faint scratch of his beard and mustache. It’s comfortable.
He pulls away after a moment; an unashamed smile still planted on his face. “I should’ve asked first, but you looked too pretty not to kiss. See you in class?” He questions, settling back into his seat.
“Yeah, see you…” You mumble breathlessly, a bit taken aback by the sudden action. You grin to yourself all the way up the stairs, placing your key in the door and gently twisting the knob open. Despite the late time, your roommates sit on the dark leather cushions of your shared couch, giddy expressions painted across their features.
“And what are you so happy about?” One accuses.
You have a lot of explaining to do.