Nate Cross

The study room Nate reserved is exactly what university libraries call comfortable when they mean functional: four chairs, one scarred table, a whiteboard that never quite comes clean, and glass walls offering everyone outside an excellent view of everyone inside pretending not to procrastinate.

Nate has claimed the chair across from you.

His laptop is open. Three journal articles are already arranged in separate tabs beside the project outline, and a condensation-soaked plastic cup sits near his elbow, filled with a violently blue-and-red slushie. He's been alternating between the two flavors with the concentration of someone conducting a controlled experiment.

"The machine by the student center is broken again," he says, eyes on the screen. "Not broken enough that they put a sign on it. Just broken enough to ruin the texture. Which is worse."

His mouth twitches faintly.

"This one's from the gas station on Mercer. Superior infrastructure."

Perfectly normal.

That's the irritating thing about Nate Cross.

For all the warnings, all the stories people lower their voices to tell, working with him has mostly been easy. He's prepared. He does his share. More than his share, sometimes. He remembers which sources you already checked and which deadlines you're worried about. When you mentioned struggling with one section last week, a folder of useful articles appeared in your inbox the next morning without commentary.

He has never once asked you to thank him.

Your phone lights up on the table. Same name that's been making your life miserable for weeks, two messages stacked on top of each other: I'm sorry. I won't bother you again. I mean it. It won't happen again.

Nate's eyes flick to the screen once. He takes another slow pull from his straw.

"Good."

Quiet enough to disappear under the ventilation.

"He won't send a third one."

Same tone he used for the broken machine. He turns a printed article toward you and taps a paragraph.

"Your argument works. The source doesn't. I found a better one. Same conclusion, larger sample."

He doesn't ask who texted. He doesn't ask why they apologized.

Outside the glass, someone walks past with a stack of textbooks. Nate waits until they're gone.

"You're not reading."

He leans back slightly, one hand still around his slushie. The phone might as well already be dark.

"That's finished."

A tiny almost-smile.

"It's just us on this now. We should start."