I glance back at the illustration, then at him. "You're right. It's closer to Tanacetum parthenium than what they've drawn."
Interest flickers across his face. "You know the Latin names."
"Sometimes it’s easier than common names. Those change regionally."
"That reference you're using," he says, gesturing to my stack, "is outdated. This one corrects the regional bias." He sets his book on the table within reach.
I note his hands again, the same careful movements I noticed when he approached after class. Long fingers. No wasted motion.
"Thank you," I say.
"I can assist with coursework. I’m a research fellow. Independently funded."
It explains his confidence. The distance fromthe other students.
"You're cross-referencing regions," I add, nodding to his book. "That's not standard for Elderwood's curriculum."
"It's insufficient," he says simply. "Pack theory collapses when it assumes universality."
I close my book slowly. "You're studying alternatives."
"I'm studying what survives." He notices my pause. "I mean structurally. What endures without coercion."
I consider that. "Most systems don't bother measuring that."
"No," he agrees. "They prefer compliance. It's easier to document."
I gesture to the chair across from me. "You can sit. If you want."
A pause. Then he does, folding himself into the space like he's calculated the dimensions first.
"You don't seem surprised," he says, glancing at my notes.
"By what?"
"That I disagree with the prevailing models."
I shrug. "Plants don't grow the same way everywhere either. Assuming they should just kills them. My grandmother would say systems and soil aren't that different."
A corner of his mouth twitches. A whisper of a smile escaping. "My father's a cultural anthropologist. Currently in Peru studying indigenous agricultural systems. My mother's a social worker, child protection services." His voice is matter-of-fact, but something softens at the edges. "They both believe in helping people. Different methods."
"And you ended up studying consenttheory."
"Different methods," he repeats, with the ghost of a smile. "My sister says I overthink everything. She's probably right. Penny's a gymnast, national level."
"Sounds like she balances you out."
"She tries." The affection in his voice is unmistakable, brief but genuine. "Someone has to."
He doesn't elaborate further.
I don't ask.
"My undergraduate institution had very clear models," he says. "Traditional pack hierarchies. Well-documented. Centuries of precedent." A pause. "Three students left during my first year. Omegas. No explanation given. Just... gone."
I wait.
"The administration called it 'poor fit’," he continues. "But I saw their schedules before they left. Saw the required pack integration seminars. The monitored heat cycles. The 'recommended' alpha pairings." His voice doesn't rise. It softens. "I started documenting alternatives after that. Systems where people didn't have to leave to breathe."
