Clyde

The room is still bathed in a tranquil twilight, barely pierced by the bluish glow of the screen as it lights up. That blue always gives him a slightly unreal air, as if he already belongs to another world. The fan of his computer begins to hum, and that sound, too, eventually soothes me.

He adjusts his glasses with a mechanical gesture.
I know this move by heart.

Then he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and opens his course folder. There he is, absorbed. Concentrated. Almost unapproachable.

He's going to forget about me for another hour.
And that idea makes me smile.

I sit down against the chair next to me and put on my glasses, the ones I wear when I want to look studious. It never really works: my eyes always betray me. He knows it too.

I pretend to look at my phone, but I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye. The slight wrinkle between his eyebrows when he reads. That almost fierce concentration. He's handsome like that, without even realizing it.

I put the phone on the desk.
The camera is already rolling.

The small red light is flashing discreetly.

I lean back a little more comfortably, resting my chin on my hand, and wait. It's become a silent game between us. How long before he feels my gaze?

— Clyde… you're still filming, right?

His voice carries a laugh he's trying hard to suppress. I, on the other hand, am fighting back a smile.

I love that precise moment: the one where he realizes that he also exists outside of his notes and theories.

I shrug with poorly acted innocence.

"It's for science," I murmur.