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Our food arrives, and the conversation shifts again. But my mind stays on the tutoring. Once or twice a week. I can do that. I already know I’ll be counting the days between.

When we are finished eating, I pay the bill before he can argue, because I offered, and we head back toward campus in that loose, full-stomach quiet that should feel good. It does, until I realize we don’t have plans to hang out after our lunch.

Is it weird that I want to spend more time with him? I’m trying to think of excuses to keep him with me. A trip to the bookstore? Some coffee? Anything I come up with sounds like I’m asking him to stay, which I am.

But I don’t get to voice any of them.

A group is coming the other way across the quad, and Daniel’s whole face changes, default smile spreading wider. I know the one from practice, it’s the goalie. The other two are hockey-shaped and loud. One of them slaps him on the shoulder, and they start talking about the scrimmage as if it’s still happening. Daniel laughs and turns half toward them without turning all the way away from me, which is polite and also the start of him leaving.

“This is Quinn,” he says, gesturing to me. “My roommate.”

Roommate…not friend. I’m stuck on that fact as he says their names. I nod at each one, and as soon as the next name is said, I’ve forgotten the last. I’m not good with names, I’ve never been good with them. I do catch Eli, but that’s because he’s the only face I know I’ve seen before. They are all taller than me; it makes me feel smaller than normal. And they are loud. One of them studies me a second longer than the others like he might recognize me from the rink the other day. I stare at the sidewalk, uncomfortable.

“We’re headed to the Cafe for smoothies,” one of them says. “Protein and bad decisions. Luke, Ty, and Will are going to meet us there. You coming, Danny?”

“Don’t call me that,” Daniel says, automatic, and they all think it’s funny.

I wait for him to say he already has plans even though we don’t. He glances at me. I should speak up and give him an excuse if he wants one. I don’t get the sentence out, though.

“Yeah, I can come,” he says to them, then to me, softer, “You want to come, too?”

The cafe at this hour would be torture. I’ve already used up my peopling for the day. My body knows it before my mouth does.

“I have homework,” I say. It isn’t even a lie. I always have homework, even if it’s extra credit.

“Okay.” He bumps my shoulder, the same light bump from before. “Thanks for lunch. Text me if you think of more rules.”

Then he’s gone, pulled into the current of his friends, already answering a question I didn’t hear. I stand there in the middle of the quad and watch his back until the group swallows it.

TWENTY-ONE

DANIEL

We fall into a rhythm of tutoring. His sessions on Wednesday or Thursday nights and mine on Tuesday and Saturday. I focus on small things with him for foreplay, most of it isn’t technically foreplay. After I blundered the cuddling. Holding hands. His shoulder under my arm during a movie on his laptop. My fingers in his hair until he goes boneless and pretends he isn’t. But I think we are at the point of trying something more.

So yeah, I think we are at the next step.

He needs to know how to turn someone on. Not that it’s that hard with me. His knee against mine and a movie is enough to do it lately. He’s gotten a million times better with touch. I assume he’s just gotten used to it with me, because I don’t even think before I pull him into me now.

I’m ready to suggest he be the one doing the touching now, using me as the example, which is either generous or the most self-serving lesson plan I’ve ever thought up.

I look over at him as he pours the liquid into the beaker. Should I bring it up now? I glance around, no one is close enough to overhear and they are all completely absorbed in their projects right now.

I chew on my cheek as my stomach swirls with the nerves I get when I’m about to ask someone out, which is not what this is.

“Quinn.”

He looks up, careful with the liquid, his glasses slipping behind the googles. “Mm.”

“Tomorrow,” I say, and that gets his full attention. “I want to change what we do. I think that maybe you should practice touching me. Not just letting me touch you. If you want to know how to turn someone on, you should know what to do with your hands on them.”

The beaker stops mid-air. His ears go pink so fast I almost laugh, and then I don’t, because my own pulse is in my throat as I wait for his response.

“On you,” he says.

“Uh, yeah, on me. I can talk you through it and tell you what works. A little hands-on experience. No pun intended.”

He finishes the pour as if the liquid is the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. Then he carefully sets the beaker back in the holder. Wipes his gloves on his lab coat, even though they are clean.