Archive of Our Own

Bloody hell, Vlad—this is all your fault!

Yeah, alright. That's not entirely fair.

It's just…easier on my psyche to shove the blame onto someone else for the moment. I'll feel like a proper idiot when I get 'round to accepting responsibility for this.

I mean, how long can I stand here in the middle of the road like a complete buffoon and stare blankly at this absolutely adorable man before he starts to think there's something egregiously wrong with me—or, worse yet…he thinks I don't actually want to give him my number?!

Oh, I am in soooo much trouble.

Y'know, my brain pipes up unhelpfully, it doesn't even really matter whose fault it is. The question is: what are you going to do about it?

And for several slightly-panic-stricken moments, I have absolutely no idea.

I need inspiration to strike. And soon.

Vlady! I could really use a hand here! What are your 'words of wisdom' now?!

I heard a knuckle rap twice against my open door and a familiar voice call out, "Anyone home?," and I glanced over my shoulder. I was elbow-deep in a box of astronomy texts, with several additional boxes left to unpack as I made a vain attempt to prepare my new office for the upcoming semester.

I had way too many books for so small a space; some of these would have to go back to my flat. It was trying to decide which ones should stay that was giving me a bit of a headache, so I was grateful for any distraction that would allow me to take a guilt-free break.

"Vlady! Great to see you!" I grinned widely at my old professor as I put down the small stack of books and wiped my hands on my wrinkled trousers. "C'mon in, have a seat! Lemme just—clear a chair for you…"

I stumbled around the large desk that took up the majority of the room. Our university didn't skimp on furniture for its faculty, that was for sure. The desk was heavy and massive and would provide ample space for working. It was just that, by virtue of being one of the newest associate professors, I was relegated to an office that wasn't much bigger than a large closet. And no window. Obviously.

But it was my closet, and I couldn't help but feel a small swell of pride.

Vlad waved a dismissive hand at my offer and leaned against the door jamb. "No, please—no need to trouble yourself, my friend," he said in his typical gruff manner, voice tinged with a slight German accent. "You said you would be here doing some unpacking today, so I thought I would stop by to see how you're getting on." He took a sip from his favorite stein.

I nodded and then perched myself on the edge of my desk as I took a moment to cast an appreciative look at the man before me.

Dr. Vladimir Steiger, professor of history: first my professor, then my mentor—now my colleague and friend.

Despite his short stature, consistently disheveled appearance, and wild, white hair (currently covered by a beret that was, naturally, slightly askew), he was infamous among the students for being singularly intimidating.

To his face, they respectfully addressed him as 'Dr. Steiger'; but behind his back, he was known by many a disgruntled student as 'Vlad the Impaler,' a moniker he gained thanks to the generous application of red ink he rather prolifically scribbled over each and every essay his students submitted.

He was gravely serious about anything and everything related to history—Russian history in particular, which was his specialty. Students who took any of his courses expecting to simply coast through soon received a very rude awakening—and they all quickly came to appreciate his nickname.

But no one could argue that he wasn't a fair teacher. He was as quick to offer his unbridled and enthusiastic assistance to a struggling undergraduate as he was to scathingly critique an assignment.

I had liked him from the very start.

It had been my incredible fortune that he had taken me under his wing during my undergraduate years, back when I had considered a degree in history.

Even after I heard the siren-song of the stars and opted to pursue astrophysics, Vlad was there with his unflagging support, continuing to encourage and guide me. The frequent dinners and companionable conversation that he and his wife had shared with me around their table had nourished my mind as well as my stomach, especially during my draining, sleep-deprived years of independent research before I finally earned my coveted doctorate.

Vlad had also been one of my biggest and most vocal champions when I had ultimately decided to apply for a professorship. In fact, I was fairly certain it was his glowing recommendation that had ultimately swung the pendulum in my favor.

His friendship was steadfast and true—and his guidance and counsel had never steered me wrong.

And now that I was rather anxiously staring down my new reality as a salaried member of academia, I suddenly found that I was decidedly curious about any notable advice he had to share.

"Would you like some help with your books?" Vlad asked as he gazed around the tiny space.

"Nah," I said, waving my arms vaguely. "Barely enough room for me to move around in here. But," I paused, "there is one thing you can help me with."

"And what's that?"

"Well, seeing as how I will shortly begin helping to shape the minds of future generations, I'm genuinely curious about something." I leaned back a bit and lightly crossed my arms. "If you could give me just one piece of advice, Vlad—maybe even just, oh, I dunno, something you wish someone had told you when you were just starting out—what would it be?"

Of all the things he could have said—of all the bits of sage insight he could have imparted—what he chose to share was so unexpected that, no sooner had he uttered the words, I immediately let out a rather loud guffaw:

"Get yourself a fake phone number."

He said it in the most deadpan manner, without missing a beat, like he hadn't even had to give it a moment's thought.

His dry, rather sarcastic wit was another of his trademarks, and even those who knew him well couldn't always tell when he was being serious and when he was joking.

I tended to pride myself on being able to read him better than most, and I was absolutely certain that he was pulling my leg.

"Oh, that's brilliant, Vlady!" I continued to laugh and waited for him to join me. "No, but honestly, what's your real advice?"

But he didn't even crack a smile.

"That is my 'real advice.'" His brow furrowed, and he seemed a bit surprised that I obviously thought he was just messing about.

"Oh. Oh—certainly! I mean—of course…!," I stammered as I desperately tried to backpedal, half afraid he might take a bit of offense at my amused response. My brain was racing to try to figure out how acquiring a false phone number would assist me in any way—and why that was apparently his most valuable nugget of wisdom.

Then he did smile. "No, it's alright, it's alright. I know, it sounds ridiculous." He chuckled for a moment. "As a matter of fact, my reaction was the same when that advice was given to me…oh, decades ago now. But," his tone suddenly became incredibly grave, and it instantly made me sit up a bit straighter on the desk, "Anthony, in all my years of teaching and writing and lecturing, I would say—yes, I would go so far as to say it's been the best unexpected advice I have ever been given."

My eyebrows shot up. "That good, eh?"

He nodded once, decisively, his small reading glasses bobbing on his nose. "Unequivocally."

"Ooooookay," I said, nodding thoughtfully. "I'm keeping an open mind. So…can you explain? Not that I don't trust you, you understand! You know that I do, Vlad. Your counsel has never failed me…yet." And I gave him a small wink and a smile on the 'yet.' "But…well, I have to say, this definitely seems a little—out there, even for you."

He glanced down at his stein, and a look I couldn't decipher flitted across his face. Then he lifted his head and looked me square in the eyes. "You'll get no argument from me. It sounds downright ludicrous. But mark my words, my boy: not only can I guarantee that you'll soon be grateful for this counsel, I would bet my stein that someday, you will come up to me and say, 'Vlad, my good sir, that was the single-greatest bit of calculated advice I ever received from you in the entirety of my life.'"

Now he really and truly had my attention.

He had already given me veritable heaps of truly inestimable guidance in the years that he had been my mentor…but it was on this arguably absurd slice of wisdom that he would wager one of his most prized possessions?

Well, if he was willing to bet on his ever-present beer-stein-that-he-used-as-a-coffee-mug—then I was willing to take his laughable recommendation seriously.

"Alright," I said, returning his decisive nod, "I'm listening. Fire away."

According to Vlad, the advice had also been imparted to him by one of his mentors when he himself was a fledgling professor, and the logic itself was deceptively simple:

Keep a fake phone number at the ready in case of…overzealous admirers.

I had laughed outright at that. I was certainly no one special, and I didn't believe I was any more or less attractive than any other bloke. I simply couldn't see overzealous admirers in my future—at least, not in the droves that would require my use of a phoney number.

But Vlad was insistent. "You're a university professor now, my boy," he said solemnly. "Without even noticing or intending to, you will give off something akin to"—and here he chuckled almost grimly—"academic pheromones. At least that's what Mona calls them."

I had to laugh. Vlad's tiny, adorable, firey-haired wife (Mrs. Dr. Vlady, as I called her) was an absolute hoot, and I could just hear her lilting voice in my mind saying that phrase.

"Academic pheromones?" I grinned. "Really, Vlad. Really?"

"Yes, really," he affirmed. "Just you wait, Dr. Crowley," and he gave me a very pointed look, "those pheromones are a very real phenomenon. Granted, the evidence is largely anecdotal. But there is no denying the fact that once you don the tweed jacket of the professoralis universitairis"—I let out a bark of laughter at his faux-Latin—"infatuated students, enthusiastic fans, and potential suitors will begin to beat a proverbial path to your door."

"And this is spoken from personal experience, innit?" With a half-grin, I stared at him over the top of my glasses which I had intentionally slid down my nose.

"Oh, indeed it is, young man!" He seemed a bit scandalised that I would dare to question his own personal pheromones, but I adopted a look of incredulity and raised an eyebrow to prompt him to continue. He did, after a moment, with an audible sigh. "Yes," he said, gesturing broadly with his stein-free hand, "I know it seems a bit…unlikely. But I'll have you know that I was quite a good-looking lad back in the day, and I had more than my fair share of Damen who were keen to…know me better, if you catch my meaning."

"Yeah," I smiled as I pushed my glasses back up, "I catch your meaning—you old scoundrel."

"Now, now—none of that," he chided with a grumble. But this time, I knew he was taking it all in stride, sharing the joke with me, and his face broke into a wide grin after only a few moments before shortly growing somber once again. "But, in all seriousness, Anthony. I strive to treat every interaction with the professionalism it demands. And in the case of especially forward young ladies—and quite a number of young gentlemen, too, if I'm being completely transparent—" and I couldn't stop my eyes from growing almost impossibly wide at that revelation—"well, in those cases, I have a false number at the ready."

"Ahhh, I think I'm beginning to get the picture," I said, slowly nodding. "But—well, I mean, I'm sure at some point, the…furor dies down. Right? You don't still get raving fans cornering you at symposiums?" I laughed at the mental image of a bevvy of delighted brunettes swarming around the grumpy, rumpled Dr. Steiger.

"You might be surprised," he intoned with an air of amusement at my apparent disbelief.

"Really? Still? But—but, you're married! You wear a wedding ring, for crying out loud! Surely that wards them off!"

He laughed aloud, a bit mirthlessly, and then took a moment to wave the hand at me that was graced with the aforementioned golden band. "Forbidden fruit, my friend. Unfortunately, that is all this seems to represent to some."

That particular kernel of knowledge was decidedly jarring, and I couldn't help a sudden feeling of slight melancholy. To my mind, a wedding ring represented something incredibly sacred, something worthy of the utmost care and protection. I myself wasn't yet married, but I harbored hopes to be one day. Knowing that there were those who would be so dismissive of that bond—or, worse yet, would view the person wearing the band as some sort of forbidden fruit they felt challenged to obtain—made my stomach churn.

"Ugh, you cannot be serious," I groaned, taking off my glasses and scrubbing a hand over my face. "That is—that is just so…ughhhh."

"You're not wrong, Anthony," I heard Vlad sigh, "and quite frankly, I'm not sure if I could have said it better myself. The good news, however…," and he paused until I lifted my face and was once again looking at him. "The good news," he repeated with a wry smile, "is that this is precisely where a fake number will come in ever so handy."

"Get myself a fake number," I replied with a wry smile of my own, sliding my glasses back onto my face. "Got it."

"Of course," he cautioned, "folks will still be able to look you up on the university website and track down your school number and email. But at least with a fake number handy, you'll avoid having to give out your personal number to anyone who just won't take no for an answer. Calls and emails to you at the school can at least be ignored. Much harder to shake someone off if they know they can text you at 3 AM."

I nodded with a knowing chuckle before curiosity prompted my next question. "So what's your fake number? Wait! Don't tell me." I raised an eyebrow and wagged an admonishing finger at him. "Is Johnson Cleaners fielding your unwanted phone calls?"

"Of course not, my boy!" Vlady's eyebrows shot up as if I had just made the most lewd suggestion imaginable. Then he continued with a low grumble. "Their number is much too easy to verify with a reverse look-up."

That actually made me snort-laugh, and Vlad soon joined me with his own gruff chortle.

"Actually," he said after several moments, "I made an arrangement with one of my mentors. Dr. David Schafer. He's a professor emeritus now. His daughter owns a small boutique in Lamb's Conduit Street. When her father shared our…plight, she was only too delighted to help. In fact, from what I understand, she rather enjoys giving our callers quite the run-around."

I smiled to think of Vlad's and Dr. Schafer's unsuspecting, would-be lovers hearing a distinctly feminine voice on the other end of the line and imagined what she would say to throw them off.

I had half a mind to ask Vlady if he thought she might possibly be up for adding one more poor bloke to her list but then thought better of it. It would be best if I found my own false number to exploit and not add a potential slew of new callers to the poor girl's roster.

"Just one more thing, and then I'll let you get back to it," Vlad said. "That is, if you're sure you wouldn't like some help shelving some of these…?" He picked up The Mechanism of the Heavens that was laying at the top of a stack of books by the door and gently waved it toward one of my bookshelves.

"No, but thanks again for asking. Still need to decide which of this lot I'll have to take home. Not as much room here as I thought."

"Well, stick around, my friend. Something tells me that in just a few more years, you'll be moving into at least slightly more spacious accommodations," and he gave me a warm smile.

I smiled back, once again feeling abundantly grateful for Vlady's encouragement and friendship. "You said you had…one more thing to tell me?"

"Oh. Oh, yes!" He held up a cautioning finger. "I would highly recommend you settle on one number, and then commit it to memory as firmly as you can. I've known other academics who choose to simply rattle off a random number. Not much wrong with that, really—except that I'm sure, like me, you don't want to inadvertently damn some poor widow over in Brent to a jangling phone and an unsolicited rant when the caller realises they've been had.

"The other problem you can run into with random numbers," he continued, "is that if the person is clever—and they get cleverer by the day," he quipped ruefully, "they'll take down the number…and then will innocently ask you to repeat it back to them, 'just to be sure I've written it down proper,'" and I had to laugh as he affected a high, feminine tone with the last bit. "Having one number you can rattle off at a moment's notice with no hesitation—that's the goal. Makes for a much more convincing deception." He flashed me a half-grin as he raised his stein in a 'cheers' motion and then took a swig.

I returned his 'cheers' with a small salute. "One fake number. No random numbers. And memorize it till I can recite it in my sleep. Yessir. Anything else?"

He was silent for a moment as he gazed down at his stein with a small frown, then he opened his mouth as if to say something more. But then his jaw closed with a click, and he looked back up at me with another grin. "No…no, I think that just about covers it for now." His eyes roved once more around my office. It was a short trip. "Planning to be here much longer?"

I pushed myself away from my desk as I glanced over all the opened and unopened cartons of books, and I let out a short sigh as I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe another hour or so? Just need to make some tough decisions on who gets to stay here—and who has to go home." I sniffled theatrically and flicked a nonexistent tear from my eye, then smiled. "Hey, Vlady, thanks again for stopping by." I leaned forward to stretch out my hand, and he shook it amiably. "It was nice to take a bit of a break—and to get some…interesting advice." I paused. "'Single-greatest bit of advice'. And your stein is on the line?"

He bobbed his head once in a firm nod. "Easiest bet I'll ever win." Then he gave me a wide grin and a wink as he released my hand.

He didn't go before proffering an invitation to dine with him & Mona that evening, and I accepted the invitation without a second thought. Mrs. Dr. V's German cooking was absolutely to die for, and Vlad knew I couldn't pass it up.

After he left, I took a moment to take stock of the current state of my office and decided the rest of the books could wait. I wanted to check off 'get a fake number' while it was still fresh in my mind. As ridiculous as I still believed it was, I had to admit that I could get behind the reasoning.

I reached down into my duffle bag that was sitting on the floor beside my desk, and I pulled out my phone, a small notepad, and a pencil. I didn't even have to think about which phoney number I would choose. An inspired idea had already occurred to me.

Using my own personal number as the starting point, I would simply transpose two numbers at a time until I (hopefully) reached a number that was not in service—thereby ensuring that any deflected callers would not actually be bothering anyone else, either.

Nearly ten minutes' worth of "Oops, sorry, wrong number" apologies later, as I attempted one number after another, and I had started to despair that maybe my brilliant idea wasn't quite so brilliant. But as soon as I got to the simple transposition of the last two numbers, I finally had my fake phone number. "The number you have dialed has not been recognised…" I actually laughed aloud when that blessed recording began. Success!

I then spent the next several moments repeating the number to myself until I felt fairly confident that I could fire it off without a hitch—a task made all the easier because the false number was just a hair off from my own. I even dialed it twice more just to be sure it was indeed an unavailable number.

And for an extra bit of good measure, I created a new contact in my phone called 'DR. CROWLEY'S NUMBER' (in all caps), just in case someone truly clever simply requested that I share my 'contact card' with them.

I had followed Vlady's instructions to a T, and had even added one additional failsafe of my own brilliant design.

Yes, I think it's safe to say I was feeling pretty damn-well chuffed with my overwhelming cleverness.

Now fully satisfied that I wasn't about to doom any widows' phones to the throngs of fanatically obsessed, would-be lovers of Dr. Anthony J. Crowley, I repacked my bag and slipped my phone into my pocket before slinging the duffle over my shoulder.

As I locked the door behind me and turned down the hall to leave, I felt my phone buzz and pulled it out to see a text from Vlady. Dinner would be ready in 30 minutes.

I quickly responded with a 'Heading your way now—see you soon!'

As I slid the phone back into my pocket and made my way down the quiet hall, I found myself wondering when—if—I might get to use my New Number for the first time. I had to admit, it was a bit of a novel experience to imagine fending off hordes of fans—and with a fake number, no less! Not for the last time when pondering the absurdity of all this did I let out a bark of laughter. Hordes of fans? Me?

And not for the last time did my brain needle me with, Single-greatest bit of advice? Really?

"Time will tell," I said aloud—a phrase I would ultimately find myself uttering often, especially in the moments when my mind replayed Vlady's bold statement.

Well, time did indeed tell. After nearly 15 years, I was now a (still unmarried) full professor (with a blessedly larger office); I had published dozens of papers, as well as three books so far; had spoken at countless conferences and symposiums; had participated in several 'educational exchanges' abroad; had been a guest on numerous podcasts; and had participated in a whole host of other academic engagements.

All that to say that it hadn't taken long before I had, indeed, developed quite the…following.

Anecdotal evidence or no, I now firmly believed in Mrs. Dr. Vlady's theory of academic pheromones.

I'll be honest, it had been a bit ego-boosting in the beginning, getting those first eager, wide-eyed astronomy enthusiasts who were just sooooo excited to meet me and could I sign their copy of this journal or this book and maybe could we get together for lunch or a drink sometime because they'd really love to hear my thoughts on the upcoming Orionids meteor shower and gosh I was soooo much cuter in person than the photo in this article and and and…

But I took Vlady's example to heart—not just because it was what he did but because I, too, believed in the importance of it: I treated every interaction with the respect and professionalism that my position demanded.

I was thankful that the vast majority of people who approached me with effusive praise were self-aware enough to share their thoughts and then walk away without hounding me for my number. And even a fair number of the truly enthusiastic would ultimately accept a gracious "no" as an answer.

But I did still have to give out 'DR. CROWLEY'S NUMBER' on more occasions than I would have liked—to the point where it would often take me a moment to recall my real number when the situation called for it; and those instances always managed to conjure a bit of an embarrassed laugh from me.

Correction: Those instances used to conjure a laugh.

Because, as I am sure your clever brain has by now deduced, I am currently slap-bang in the middle of a scenario where, for the first time in recent memory, I am heart-wrenchingly desirous of sharing my real number…but I cannot for the life of me remember which one it is.

And I am not laughing.

Oh, bugger all this—I could absolutely kick myself!

And speaking of kicking things…I wish I'd had the wherewithal to kick my brain into gear as soon as I'd walked into that bookshop.

It's just not that simple, alright! I mean, the bell over the door hasn't even finished jingling yet before this absolutely adorable man turns to me and—I simply have no time to prepare myself for the immediate physical reaction that literally overwhelms me—he just has these wide, eager, gorgeous bright-blue eyes that immediately root me to the floor, and his smile is so quick and disarming and he just seems so genuinely excited to help me, and my heart is suddenly pounding in my chest and in my ears and I wonder that he can't hear it, too, and I'm feeling just a bit breathless, and why do I suddenly have this image in my mind of this man whom I've only ever just now laid eyes on and in my mind he's wearing a bow-tie but his shirt is currently open at the throat so why on earth am I imagining him with a bow-tie and why in heaven's name am I just staring—get a grip, Anthony!

I force my eyes to blink and find myself relying on something like muscle-memory as my mouth repeats the same phrase I've uttered countless times over the years, in bookshops all over the world, requesting any books they might have on astrophysics—because if I spend too much time right now trying to dissect my singular reaction to this man, I might just fly apart.

With a BAFTA-worthy effort, I put on my most casual, unaffected expression and follow Blue Eyes into another room of the shop where—oh heaven help me, he offers me my own book for half price, and I am utterly appalled to hear myself say I have two boxes in my garage, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry, and he clearly has no idea who I am, and I find that surprisingly refreshing, but then I remind myself it's not as if you're some famous actor, you absolute nit, he simply doesn't run in academic circles, and yet—is it just my (hopeful?) imagination or does he seem to be…even just a bit…drawn to me?…and is it actually me or is it just my academic pheromones doing the attracting?…but does it even matter because even as the rest of our interaction passes in a blur and I'm feeling a bit anxious to leave before I say anything else thoroughly embarrassing, I'm already mentally rearranging my schedule for tomorrow and making plans to return, under the guise of looking for another book, when I can be better prepared mentally-spiritually-physically-emotionally-romantically?? to interact with this truly delightful man—who is currently hugging my book against his chest and whose name I suddenly realise I don't even know, as I thank him for his help and turn to go, but I'll ask tomorrow, because right now I need some air and I need to get a handle on my body and my brain and my heart, and I can feel his eyes on me as the bell jingles again with the opening of the door, but I don't look back because I have to keep my cool, be suave, Anthony—you've embarrassed yourself enough for one day, and I don't know if I've ever quite believed in something as fanciful as love at first sight, but I'm a scientist, after all, and my brain has been efficiently cataloguing all of the input from the last several minutes and it all adds up to…something but I don't yet know what, and I'm almost afraid to examine it too closely right now because is it possible that it's merely lust at first sight?, but no that can't be it, there was nothing (well, almost nothing) carnal about my reaction to meeting Blue Eyes, but it was unquestionably an exceedingly strong reaction, and as I attempt to look casual as I stroll away from the shop, I suddenly realise with a small jolt that I simply want to be with this man—to sit in his company and perhaps enjoy a nice meal with him, and listen to him talk about his favorite books and his hobbies and his interests and maybe even share some of mine with him, and watch his hands flutter excitedly over an especially interesting topic, and I can hear his voice in my mind and I imagine that he uses words like tickety-boo and scrumptious and says things like right as a trivet and get a wiggle on, and I have absolutely no idea why I imagine him saying such delightfully dated and old-fashioned phrases, but don't those so perfectly fit someone who wears a bow-tie and again with the bow-tie, Anthony?

But my racing train of thought is promptly derailed in a shuddering heap as I hear brogues pounding on pavement and a shouted "Oi! I say—!" from behind me, and it's a voice I recognize instantly, which is arguably strange given I've only just heard it for the first time fewer than ten minutes ago. But from the way my heart leaps, you'd think I'd been listening to this voice for thousands of years—and now wasn't that an odd thought to have…?

So I turn and try to look casual—friendly, approachable—even as my heart feels ready to beat right out of my chest, and I see him extend a book towards me—it's my book—and he's stammering in the most endearing way and asking me to inscribe the book for him (Asa, his name is Asa, Asa and Anthony, oh but that has the most enchanting ring to it), and it's not lost on me, as he fumbles to hand me a pen, that the graffiti on the wall beyond us features a winged heart with an arrow aimed straight at it, an angelic heart—and now why did that word come to mind and why does it strike a shockingly resonant chord that literally sends a slight, shuddering reverberation through my entire body, and it's a bit alarming…but not unpleasant—and everything about this feels so utterly unreal and almost otherworldly…while in the very same moment also feeling so incredibly right and…joyful and—and—almost…like a…homecoming.

And that's when it hits me.

He's asking me to write my number down…so he can ask me to dinner…and I can't get my brain to untangle which number is my real number…because I suddenly feel heartwrenchingly homesick for this darling stranger who decidedly does not feel like a stranger.

The trouble, of course, is that I've now been standing here for several moments simply staring at Asa, almost like my brain is trying to commit his face to memory but it feels like it's already in there—and now he's stammering something about me saying no to his dinner invitation, "but at least I'll have asked," and he's looking down at the ground and he's so charming when he's embarrassed and I have got to put a stop to this! Vlad! Why on earth did you ever give me this absolute bollocks advice! Oh, you soooo owe me your stein, you blasted curmudgeon! What do I do now?!

I'm nearly knocked for six as Vlad's gruff, scolding voice echoes through my mind, and I see his familiar scowl as he shakes his head at me in disappointment. Just accept his invitation now, my boy—for crying out loud—worry about the number later! Heiliger Strohsack! For such a brilliant man, Anthony, you can be thoroughly obtuse sometimes.

And there it is. He's sorted it, just like that. Gah—the scarecrow has more brains than I do! Just accept the invitation, idiot!

"I'm not going to give you my number," I say lightly. I don't want Asa to think I'm angry or annoyed that he's asked, but even so, he begins to flutter his hands apologetically and stammers out a, "No—no, of course not..." And my heart aches a bit as he tries to smile through his glaringly evident disappointment and embarrassment.

But it's all worth it in the next moment when I say, quietly and with just a smidge of hopefulness for his heart's benefit, "I'll wait for you. Where are we having dinner?"

I watch with a strange, indescribable sort of joy as Asa's face positively lights up when he realizes what I've just offered. And I don't know if it's merely the somewhat dreamy, romantic, meet-cute energy (yes, I'm observant enough to know that's exactly what you'd call this) of this lovely interaction that has me feeling rather…deliciously warm…or if it's an actual, physical heat I can almost feel radiating from Asa as he beams up at me.

If I weren't so scientifically minded, so quick to dismiss physical manifestations as mere biological occurrences, I might—I might just go so far as to say it feels—it feels like…

No, I'm not quite prepared to put a name to it just yet. Whatever this is, I'm not about to allow myself to jump the gun. Let's not run before we can walk, my brain cautions. I'm a scientist, after all. Gathering sufficient data requires time, and making a thorough analysis before I make any sort of bold claim is at the very heart of what I do.

And yet…there's no mistaking what my heart of hearts tells me it feels like.

I walk with Asa back to the bookshop, and his face is still positively radiant as I ask for his recommendations on where we should have dinner, as I'm from London and am not familiar with the area (but something tells my racing heart that that arrangement is likely to change in very short order), and his arms are once again embracing my book, pressing it tightly to his chest, and his cheeks flush as he recommends his favorite restaurant, just up the road from the shop, and since it's so close, perhaps we could simply stroll up there once he's clocked off in an hour or so, and I agree that that sounds like a marvelous idea, and I am smiling so broadly that my face is starting to hurt, because I have a lovely dinner date to look forward to with this sweet, endearing man, and as far as I'm concerned, the next hour cannot pass swiftly enough.

And in a momentary pause in our conversation, I feel the smallest thrum in my chest as my heart quietly whispers, Time will tell.