The equations made sense in a way people didn't. They followed rules. They were predictable. They didn't text you out of the blue asking for favors.

A buzz. The phone in his pocket vibrated against his thigh, a sharp interruption to the comfortable quiet of his focus. Zanka's pen paused. He ignored it, letting the lecture continue, but the buzz came again. Then again.

With a barely audible sigh, he slid the phone out from his pocket, keeping it low beneath the desk so the professor wouldn't notice. The screen glowed with a string of messages from an unknown number. Well, not unknown. He'd saved the contact three weeks ago, when the tutoring sessions began.

Jabber. The name was accompanied by a photo that appeared to have been taken at a party, a blinding flash of teeth, a peace sign, and a shocking amount of gold jewelry.

The messages read:

But he also didn't have a choice. The professor had asked him directly, and he couldn't say no without looking like an asshole.

The lecturer paused, clearing his throat, and Zanka quickly slid the phone back into his pocket. He stared at his notes, but the equations blurred together, replaced by the memory of gold rings glinting on dark locs and a grin that was equal parts charming and annoying.

He'd answer after class. Probably.