Chapter Three: Study At Least Three Hours

"You're like quantum physics—something I'm never going to fully figure out."

Content warning: internalized queerness, awkward parental interaction, queer questioning, hints of romantic tension.

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"That looks like a sketch," Christian remarks, standing beside me at my locker. I hadn't noticed the sketchbook lying open inside, a mess of 2 a.m. lines and graphite spirals—evidence of something I never intended to show.

Startled, I slam the locker shut a little too fast.

"Your secret's safe," he adds with a smirk, adjusting his messenger bag as he props a foot against the opposite locker like he's stepped off the set of an indie YA movie. Behind him, a pair of drama kids float past, laughing and wrapped in their own world. He doesn't notice. Or maybe he doesn't care. His eyes are still on me.

He's always watching without pushing. Like he's reading me. Noticing too much.

"We should get to class," I mutter, brushing past both the comment and the sudden heat crawling up my neck.

"Wouldn't blame Olsten. I don't know any teacher that likes late kids," Christian says, catching up beside me. There's something easy about the way he moves. Like he knows exactly where he's going.

Then, casually: "Can we hang out later?"

Hang out. Not study. Not physics. Just—hang out.

I hesitate for a beat too long.

"Yeah," I manage to say. It comes out small.

Was I attracted to him? I didn't know. Maybe. Probably. Scientists say attraction is just neurons misfiring. A soup of chemicals and subconscious cues. But that explanation didn't account for how my chest buzzed when he stood this close, how I couldn't breathe right.

We fall into silence as we reach the door, and when he looks over at me again, his grin softens.

"You're not gonna flake, right?" he teases.

"Do I look like someone who flakes?"

He looks me up and down, then shrugs dramatically. "You look like someone who overthinks literally everything."

He's not wrong.

✦✦✦

In class, Christian leans over. "Bring your Physics book. We'll do some studying together."

I raise an eyebrow.

"We're partners," he shrugs. "Shouldn't be awkward."

It is.

Olsten begins a rambling lecture about velocity and friction, and I try to copy down his notes. Christian's handwriting is neater than mine. Focused. He's underlining and starring things like someone who actually cares. Meanwhile, my notes are indecipherable Latin scribbles. I keep stealing glances.

At one point, he catches me staring.

"You okay, Hemsworth?"

"Fine. Just confused about... velocity."

He smirks. "You'll get it. Think about it like momentum. You're already moving—just keep going."

He doesn't mean it metaphorically, but I feel it like he does.

✦✦✦

Art class is a wash. Simon's still working on his zebra canvas, layering pink, yellow, and blue with meticulous care. His strokes are fluid, intentional, unapologetically bold.

I sit in front of my easel, frozen. Blank canvas. Blank mind.

"What do the colors mean?" I ask him.

Simon pauses. "The LGBTQIA community. It's what I'm painting about. The spectrum, the visibility, the pride."

Something shifts in my chest.

"We have meetings Tuesdays at lunch," he adds. "You should come."

I nod like that's something I could do. Like that's someone I could be.

"You've got talent," I tell him. "Art schools will love you."

Simon just smiles. "Inspiration comes. You just have to let it."

Later, I glance at my sketchbook again. The page still shows a rough outline of someone. Messy jawline. Strong arms. Blonde hair. I didn't even realize it was Christian until I looked long enough.

✦✦✦

Dryden and I head to his car. I see Christian at his Jeep across the lot. I don't say anything.

"First game tomorrow," Dryden says, practically vibrating. "I'm hyped."

"The whole town'll be there," I mutter. Too sharp.

Dryden raises a brow. "Your parents'll probably show up. You should too. Just once."

"They go because they want to," I snap. "Doesn't mean I have to."

He stiffens. "Dude. I've known you since we were kids. It's not about football. It's about being there."

I sigh. "It's just not my thing."

"Whatever. You're home," he mutters, pulling into my driveway.

I don't say goodbye.

✦✦✦

Inside, my parents are in the kitchen. The smell of boiling vegetables hits me immediately.

"I'm going to a friend's," I say.

My mom glances over from the cutting board. "After dinner."

Then the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it."

I already know who it is.

Christian stands on the porch in a hoodie with David Hasselhoff's face and a pair of comfortable-looking sweats. His hair's still messy. He looks good. Too good.

Without a word, I motion him inside.

"Who was that?" my mom asks as he walks in. Too late.

"This is Christian. My physics table mate."

He greets them with a practiced smile and a handshake. Effortlessly polite.

"Sorry, I didn't know dinner was happening," he says.

My dad eyes him curiously. "How's Luke doing in class?"

Please don't.

"He's doing alright," Christian says.

Just alright.

"Where are you from?" my mom asks. The same question he'd avoided in the Jeep.

Christian's voice tightens. "Vermont."

I step in. "We'll be upstairs. Homework."

✦✦✦

My room is quieter, but my nerves buzz louder.

"Sorry about the interrogation," I say.

"They ask because they care. Same as my aunt."

He glances around my room—posters, scattered books, the visible mess of someone in limbo.

I blurt out: "I want to go to MIT. But I'm scared of not getting in. I'm scared I'll fail."

He turns to face me.

"Then pass physics. Let's start with that."

We sit on my bed and study. Like, actually study. Read, underline, ask questions, make flashcards. Hours pass. His leg touches mine once, briefly. I don't move it.

He quizzes me. I get half of them wrong. He doesn't tease me too hard.

Eventually, I glance at my phone.

"It's late."

Christian stretches. "You're just not used to having someone study with you."

He's right.

"I'll walk you out."

At the door, he hesitates.

"See you tomorrow, Hemsworth."

Then:

Christian: I'll text you when I get 🏠

Me: Okay. Study at least three hours, right?

Christian: Always. Don't forget to quiz yourself too.

Me: Quiz me tomorrow. I dare you.

Christian: Fine. What's Newton's Second Law?

I stare at the screen. My fingers hover. I could Google it. I could play dumb. Instead:

Me: F=ma. Force equals mass times acceleration.

Christian: Genius. You get a star. 🌟

Me: Do I get extra credit if I tell you I was thinking about you while I memorized it?

Pause.

Christian: I think that's called bonus points.

Me: Cool. I need all the points I can get.

A few seconds later, a selfie pops up. Christian, in his car, tongue sticking out again. Captioned: Confidence Vibe.

I laugh. Then I send one back—half-blurry, hoodie up, eyes peeking out. No caption.

He replies with two smiley face emojis.

I fall asleep grinning like an idiot.

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