This is a series of seven drabbles spurred by a prompt on tumblr and written as an (at sometimes loose) interpretation of the definition of the chapter title.

Forelsket - The word for when you start to fall in love. A euphoria in a sense; the beginning of love.

...

In typical fashion, every class has one student who performs well above the rest. As it is, Cadet Uhura appears particularly perturbed that it is not her.

Again, she examines the exam he distributed only moments ago in class, as if continued scrutiny will return a different assessment than he already provided. "But who scored higher?"

"I cannot share that information with you," Spock says, though this should be self-evident.

"Ok, how much better were their marks?"

"You may ask that of your classmates, but not of me." The tone he employs would have any other human cadet unable to meet his eyes. Uhura simply stares back at him from across his desk.

He determines at some length that waiting for her to respond is, apparently, fruitless.

His hand spread on the surface of his desk, he says, "The intention of assessing your work is to serve as a benchmark of your ability to grasp the course material, not a venue to compete against other students." He waits for a moment before adding, "Perhaps your time would be better spent in study than in my office hours."

Her eyes narrow slightly at this advice before she gives him a single nod and leaves his office without another word.

When her footsteps have faded down the hall, he brings up her record. She is not his best student, and considering the scores of students above her in his class, she will not outcompete their standing. Still, she is… intriguing.

…

"Sir?" he hears. "Sir, just a moment, excuse me, Commander?"

It is raining. Hard. He has brought neither an umbrella nor a suitable jacket and while in retrospect both were a poor choice, he is currently more concerned with the state of his socks and the hours that will elapse until he is at his leisure to return to his quarters than he is his failure to sufficiently check the forecast.

"Cadet?" he asks, blinking against the water dripping into his eyes. From one of the other paths that bisect the Academy quad, Uhura rushes toward him.

"Sir, for the midterm-"

He holds his hand up and she stops so abruptly that her mouth is still open. If she wishes to ask him if the material covered in the most recent class will be on the midterm, he does not have patience for that, especially when accosted in this weather, meters from any available shelter.

"I believe I was clear on the exam's content, Cadet."

"No, I'm sorry, it's just that-" She shakes her head, rain splattering from the ends of her hair onto her shoulder. "I really don't understand the underlying theory behind ethnographic methods we went over in last week's class. On the quiz yesterday, I realized I wasn't entirely sure how to answer and the exam is tomorrow and-"

"-Cadet." Only weeks into the semester and already he is well accustomed to her ability to, given a chance, build up what he has heard humans term 'a head of steam'. He is entirely more interested in a haven from San Fransisco's inclement weather than listening to whatever justification Uhura has constructed. "You will perform acceptably."

"It's not-" She grabs the strap of her bag where it hangs from her shoulder and then apparently changes her mind over where to place her hand, because she crosses her arm over her stomach instead. She takes a deep breath and straightens slightly. "I'm sorry if it seemed like I cared only about my grades and fine is not-"

Again she shakes her head before running the back of her hand under her nose and then through the water on her cheeks. Behind her is an awning over the entrance to the engineering building. His meeting that he is now no longer early for is in the opposite direction.

"Cadet," he says again and she sniffs once, hard. In his boots, water pools. "I would not trouble yourself."

Any more, he cannot say. On his desk in his office sits her quiz, both with it's correct answers, and the midterm exam he completed just moments ago, which does not contain questions in the area of her concern.

She does not appear satisfied, though she finally nods.

He searches for what more he can tell her and settles for simply nodding in return before hurrying towards his meeting.

He is already late, and made more so by the wind whipping rain against him, though upon his arrival to his destination, he finds that he is hardly the only one delayed by the unpleasant weather. Half of the officers scheduled to attend have yet to arrive, and the few that have are engaged in idle conversation with each other. Dripping, he settles his belongings on the table and attempts to adjust his clothing as to make it more bearable to focus on the tasks in front of him.

Yet, despite his attempts, the cold and damp and unsettled nature of his arrival continually turn his thoughts from the meeting that has yet to begin.

Surely, other students in Uhura's class have similar concerns, though perhaps none are quite so willing to chase after him on a day such as this. There is, then, an argument to be made that they too are suffering from similar distraction, and that in the interest in ensuring that they spend their time focused on their preparation for their exam and not on needless anxieties, he takes advantage of the lull in his day to power his padd on and, wiping away the damp that covers the screen, posts the grades he has already nearly finished collating.

…

The message arrives at 22:47 on a Saturday evening. When his padd pings in receipt of it, Spock turns down the music he was listening to, a new composition by T'Leia that was released only the day prior. He shuts the recording off entirely after he reads Cadet Uhura's note the first time and examines it more closely the second time through, leaning forward on his couch and holding his padd closer as if to better make sense of what she wrote.

A narrative analysis of Romulan histories. An interesting choice for the final paper. And not surprising that she cannot locate the needed sources, as many have not been translated from the original High Romulan.

In truth, including the issues of access that she has already identified, she likely does not possess sufficient time to both obtain the needed resources and find a translator, which he begins to write to her, along with a recommendation that she reconsider her topic when he stops himself and reads her message through for a third time.

She asked after where she might find the needed papers, not help with reading them. Curious. It would be illogical to answer a question she has not posed, despite his desire to bring to her attention the difficulties of translation and the reality that she must consider this. Of course, while her marks have not elevated her to the head of her class - no matter that she has drawn significantly closer - she is not unintelligent. The opposite, in fact, which she proves weekly, holding lively and at times heated debates with her classmates. More than once, students who not only outscore her but also outrank her, years closer to their graduation than she is, have capitulated under her unrelenting arguments, which she is often able to formulate before her classmate has finished speaking. It is quite a sight.

He wakes the screen of his padd when it begins to dim. If she has not already realized the challenge she has set for herself, she will soon be aware of it, and while he does not have the needed access to the documents she requires, he can obtain it for her. He also has a number of other sources that may be of use in her analysis that he can send her on Monday morning.

Though she is, apparently, currently working, no matter that it is a day that most cadets spend in leisure pursuits. And he is not occupied. He crosses to his desk and beings sorting through a stack of padds there, setting two aside and then a third.

It is some time before he remembers to turn his music back on, and longer still until he finally rests for the night, a set of notes left out on his desk for the next day.

…

On two separate occasions, she expresses that she does not have to occupy his time during his office hours and does not intend to detract from his availability for other students. Twice, he assures her that there is no problem. Both times, she sits back into her chair with an ease that no other student has ever displayed in his presence.

Of course, no other student has ever had the audacity to argue about the content of his slides, nor his grading standards, so he supposes it would follow that surprise is illogical.

"I'm just not sure that I really grasp your explanation of how Rosseau disproved Desai's theory of xenolinguistic determinism," she says as she flicks through her notes. From the way she is holding her padd, he can see the measured, neat lines of her writing, the precise indents in the margin, and a number of arrows and circled words. When she is not engaging her classmates in discussing, she spends every class bent over her padd, occasionally looking up at him and making and holding eye contact, only to look down once more and resume her rapid writing.

He leans forward and clasps his hands on his desk. "You did not follow it or you did not agree?"

One side of her mouth curves and she ducks her head down. "Present tense, sir. I currently do not grasp it."

"I will surmise, then, than the intervening hours since class concluded were not sufficient for you to accept my reasoning."

"Those are your words not mine, Commander."

"I see," he says and sits back in his chair. He must leave for a meeting in thirty eight minutes. He calls up the notes he prepared for his lecture and then thinks better of it and reaches for a filmplast containing Rosseau's most recently published paper on the matter, certain that if she did not concur with the material he presented earlier, she will not do so now, and that further explanation is not only called for, but necessary if he is going to prove his point.

…

"I'm not your best student."

He was not expecting that she would argue upon being offered the position. "I am fully aware."

"I didn't-" She scratches at the side of her mouth with her index finger. "I thought that applying for your TA was a bit of a long shot."

It was. It is.

"You have exceptional skills in a number of pertinent areas," he reminds her, as if that fact is not also written on the resume and cover letter he received, both of which are stacked on his desk. "Unparalleled, in fact."

He does not anticipate that she will break eye contact with him upon these statements, but she does. Of course, he does not anticipate many things about her, which likely will continue when she serves as his assistant. If she serves as such.

He considers her more closely. "Is there a problem?"

"I'm just surprised, is all," she says and gives him a small smile. It appears strained.

"It is…" He attempts to locate the correct term in Standard, pausing for perhaps too long as he does so, because she shifts in her seat. "Unusual to find a student so interested in a field."

"Oh." She smiles again just as quickly, though this time it is accompanied by a slight laugh. "I sort of figured I was bothering you."

"Not at all."

"Ok," she says and he wishes to - but does not - ask her to clarify if she is accepting the job or simply acknowledging that he was not inconvenienced.

"It is not incumbent upon you to take the position, Cadet," he says and as he does, he pushes aside the beginnings of an disappointment that threatens to fill him. It is inconsequential. A psychosomatic response to the anticipation of a longer job search, and this time not with the candidate of his preference among the applicants. Still, there are other students who can fill the role, though none who have shown the endurance or ongoing propensity towards the subject as she has so thoroughly and repeatedly demonstrated.

"No," she says and he nods, redoubling his efforts to ignore the drop in his stomach. "Of course I want it, I'd be crazy not to- Yes. It's… it's wonderful, thank you, sir."

He nods again, this time far more slowly, attempting to parse her answer and to not - as it would be rampantly illogical - give way to the relief that is on the verge of flooding him at the idea she will be working with him for the entirety of the coming semester. For him. Working for him, he repeats to himself, though perhaps not with the vehemence that the thought would carry if any other student sat across his desk, a slow, genuine smile working its way across her face.

…

When she reads, her lips purse and her eyes narrow. He does not think it is a conscious expression, nor how her lips occasionally move over a word.

Every three minutes, she sips from her mug of tea. Twice, she taps her stylus on her desk and once even puts the end of it in her mouth before her eyes dart over to him and she abruptly removes it.

It is entirely distracting to have her in his office. He has not had an assistant before, and were the requirement not newly imposed by the department, he likely would not have sought one out.

She hands him graded response papers at the end of her shift, provides him with her suggestions for discussion questions based on the upcoming readings, and leaves him with a smile and instructions to enjoy his afternoon.

He does so, reviewing her comments, leaving notes on her questions, and examining the angle at which she has left her chair, imperfectly straight in front of her desk, slightly off kilter in a way that continually catches his eye, the only object in the room that is out of place.

…

She looks up from her padd when he places four filmplasts on the edge of her desk. "You are researching Standard acquisition rates for bilingual students. These might be of interest to you."

"That's for Buccheri's class."

"I am aware." She had said so just four days ago. Perhaps she believes he does not remember, or even that he was not listening, though why she would tell him such information if she did not want him to absorb it, he cannot determine.

It is, however, conceivable that taking interest in such a small detail is somehow inappropriate. As for exactly how he cannot determine, but it is possible. Humans are, as ever, difficult to understand.

Her smile is so slow in coming that for some time he thinks it will not appear at all. As it is, the filmplasts rest where he has placed them for what he deems as entirely too long before she reaches for them with both hands.

"Thank you." She shuffles them, flicking through each in turn to scan their titles. "This is really thoughtful."

"It was logical," he corrects though the qualification does not detract from the way she continues to smile.

…

He has the beginnings of a headache. Another day, he might be tempted to return to his quarters and meditate long enough to unwind the tension coiling in his temples. Today, he can only mange enough time in his schedule to watch the replicator fill a mug with hot water and spend the few seconds it takes attempting to clear his mind of thoughts.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps informs him that his relative solitude in the break room is at an end. Briefly, he closes his eyes before gathering himself, taking his mug, and determining to leave as quickly as he is able.

A hand is holding open the cupboard that stores the selection of tea the students and professors of the department maintain, the assortment eclectic and ranging from interesting to unpalatable. The hand reveals itself to belong to Cadet Uhura, who presses the cabinet door closed yet does not move from in front of it, instead examining the box she has picked out.

"Is this good?"

It is. And, as such, it is the variety he was intending on selecting for himself, though upon his confirming nod, she opens the container to reveal that only one bag remains.

"Wanna flip for it?"

"Pardon?"

Her laugh is easy and bright and fills the small room. "A coin. Never mind, you can have it if you want."

His head throbs. "The coin?" he asks before he can properly dissect her reference. When he does, he shakes his head. "I see. It is of no consequence."

As she has not yet moved, he reaches past her to open the cupboard and, when no tea that is suitable is readily available, begins to sift through the contents. It is, as ever, disorganized, the selection perpetually rearranged and improperly returned to any semblance of order.

"No, now I feel bad, you were here first. Here I'll-" From his hand, she plucks a box he has reached onto the top shelf to retrieve and, before he can either speak or move to stop her, has opened both a bag from it and placed it in an empty mug, and done the same for the variety of tea in contention, dropping it into the steaming water he is still holding. "There. Everyone's happy."

He could correct her. He is neither predisposed to happiness, nor if he were would today's set of circumstances be grounds for such. And yet, given the way the corner of her mouth pulls upward and how at ease she is as she fills her mug with water, he finds that he does not have a particular desire to disagree with her.

It is simply that he has very little disposable energy. Tonight, he will retire earlier than is typical, and in the meantime attempt to bear out his day with as much composure as he can. The tea, he decides as he takes a small sip, watching the Cadet replace boxes of tea in the cupboard, is helpful in that aim.

…

"Commander?"

"Cadet?"

She holds out a filmplast to him, and then seems to think better of her choice and instead comes to stand behind his desk, directly next to where he is sitting. She lays it next to his padd, where he can read her neat writing in the margins of the article, and see the paragraphs she has circled.

"I'm wondering if this is really the best example of semiotic evolution." She taps one finger to a line she has underlined. Her arm is mere centimeters from his. "The article you assigned last semester was a bit clearer."

"It was published five years ago now."

"Four and a half years was ok for last term?"

He is not always certain when humans are making a joke, though her eyes are lit up and her lips are twitching, so he is reasonable sure that it is the case now.

He lets his eyebrow rise. "Yes."

"Gotcha."

She is fully smiling now and is still very near to him. He pulls his padd closer. "Thank you for your advice, Cadet."

Later, he examines both papers and then his syllabus. Her point is not baseless nor unfounded. In fact, it is logical to the degree that he might have realized it himself, if he had not put so much stock in using only papers as recent as possible.

For some time he sits at his desk considering the oversight before he turns to her, ready to inform her of his reassessment before he can remember that she has left for the day. An oversight, to be sure, as she had already said goodbye and told him to enjoy his afternoon, and odd that he presumed she would still be there.

Regardless, he has the remainder of his own work to complete, despite the fact that she has moved on with her day, leaving him to attend the numerous extracurricular activities in which she participates and likely to eat dinner in the company of her classmates.

The silence of the end of the day has always aided his concentration, so as there is no reason that today is any different, it does not logically follow that he is confronted by a measure of distraction as he resumes his work, one which is not ameliorated by a greater resolve to focus, nor a firmer attention to his padd when his eyes continue to stray to the filmplast she had placed on his desk what is now some hours ago.

…

"Sorry," she says the moment he enters his office.

She does not elaborate, which leaves him standing in the center of the room, his eyes on the back of her head. She quickly shuffles through the material on her desk, stacking the majority of it and putting it into her bag in a manner entirely more haphazard than is ordinary for her.

A single filmplast escapes her cull, drifts away on a current of air stirred by her quick motions and is carried from the desk to the floor, coming to rest six centimeters from Spock's right boot. It is an exam. A completed exam, one filled out in her writing and when he picks it up and looks more closely at it, marked through with corrections and assessment that considering her performance in his class, is less favorable than he might have expected given her intelligence and dedication to her work.

He should not be looking at it. She affords him the privacy of not prying into his belongings, despite the hours she spends in his office, and even on days like this morning when she was here without him, he did not even consider that she might take advantage of the relative quiet to investigate any of the more personal objects he keeps here.

She is not meeting his eyes, half turned as she is in her chair, her hands on her thighs. As he waits, she rubs a fold of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger and continues to not look up at him. His attempts to parse her body language are, as ever, imperfect. She may be angry, though he has seen her in a state of abject irritation before and generally it is not accompanied by her shoulders being sloped inward as they are now, nor does she avoid eye contact in such situations. The opposite, in fact. She could be tired, perhaps, exhausted as many cadets become during midterms, though he has taken note more than once as to how her endurance has never appeared to flag, for she is as alert at the end of each work day and in the final hours of each week as she is any other time.

She swallows and the entire line of her throat works. "I apologize, sir, I was reviewing material for one of my courses. I thought- I didn't hear you coming."

When he holds her exam out to her, she does not take it, so he sets it on the edge of her desk. The topic is Interstellar Navigation and by the content, it appears to be from the beginning class in the required sequence. Curious, as he does not believe she has taken even a single intermediate class in the Xenolinguistics department, instead placing into the advanced courses without completing any prerequisites. "It is no matter."

Clearly, she did not understand him, for she adds, "I'm sorry for using my time in your office for anything other than my assistantship."

"As long as your work is completed on time, it is not an issue," he clarifies. His interest is in the outcome of her work, not the process through which she goes about it. Perhaps he should have made that clearer.

"The library was full," she continues. Her hair drags over her back as she shakes her head. "Is full, currently, still."

When she sees him looking at the filmplast she has not yet touched, she seizes the edge of it and pushes it into her bag.

"There is no need to further explain, Cadet," he tells her and means it as some form of comfort, except that the corner of her mouth tightens.

Embarassed. The word comes to mind so suddenly that he is not certain he has actually accurately recognized the clues in her mannerisms or if it is simply one of the only options left as an explanation, though not one that he would typically apply to her. Even when her classmates would disprove a point she had vehemently stood behind, she showed no discomfort, often instead displaying a smile and at times going as far as to raise both of her eyebrows at the other student in what he had presumed was recognition of their skill in formulating a counterargument, not a capitulation of her own point. Indeed, he is not certain that he has ever seen he display any such clear discomfort in his presence as she is now.

"You are welcome to use this room at your leisure, as long as it is not during my office hours or another meeting," he tells her as she runs her fingers back over her hair, twisting her pony tail around her hand before abruptly releasing it. She has access to his calendar, though he does not always input every feature of his week as he is fully capable of remembering the details of his schedule. He could, though. It would not take much time at all, and would likely increase her efficiency in grading and preparing his slides, as she would not have to wonder about his availability.

She nods in answer and picks up her stylus as she bends over her desk, now clear of her personal work. Again, he looks at the filmplast, now with one corner exposed where she imperfectly placed it in her bag. It is some time before her shoulders uncurl and she sits as she normally does, her back straight.

…

Humans have a tendency to always assume that one more person can fit into a turbo lift. Other species he has encountered at Starfleet do not appear as inclined to force one more occupant into such a small space, so he attributes the habit to some type of peculiarity of Terran culture.

As he always waits for a subsequent lift rather than emulating such a custom, he is often afforded a place at the back of it, which has the added benefit of being pressed near to fewer bodies, as the wall is at his back as opposed to a colleague or student. In typical fashion, he is not so fortunate when it comes to the proximity of others to the front of his body. Today it is Cadet Hannity whose arm brushes against his. She pulls her elbow back and gives him a swift smile that he takes as an apology, though why such a facial expression accompanies an indication of contrition, he has never been able to explain. Cadet Uhura is similarly shuffled towards him, though she does not bestow upon him a similar smile. Instead, she murmurs 'Sorry' as her shoulder is forced into his chest, where it remains due to the three fourth year students who are apparently intent on taking this specific turbo lift to the upper floors.

Next time, he will make use of the staircase. This is entirely illogical, to be so packed into such a small area. It is a fire hazard, for one. Two, he is not certain that the weight limit specified by the manufacturers is currently being observed.

In such close proximity, he can feel the edge of Uhura's bag against his stomach and can smell what must either be her shampoo or another cosmetic she applied. She may have just showered. Perhaps after making use of the gym before the class day began, or maybe it is her habit to do so in the morning regardless of engaging in exercise. Though he is nearly certain that like many of her species and as required by the Academy's physical standards, she often goes jogging. There is a path behind her dorm that leads to one of the city's many parks, and while making use of it himself, he has twice seen her enter her building dressed in athletic clothes. It would be a logical habit for her to develop even beyond the requirements of Starfleet, for in much the same vein he specifically allocates time each week to not only leave campus, but to seek out as much of a natural landscape as the city can provide in anticipation of years spent onboard a ship. He had not considered it before, but perhaps if she had the same inclination, he might someday encounter her on those paths. It would be pleasant, he believes, to spend time in her company in such a manner, though now that he considers it he realizes that dispelling the image of her engaged in an athletic pursuit is slightly more difficult than he might have anticipated. He can too clearly picture her with brighter eyes, similar to her expression when she finally grasps a difficult concept, and with the shine of sweat on her skin.

He is suddenly aware that he can feel her breathing, with her body in such close proximity to his.

He has always had an overly detailed an imagination, a fault he has long attributed to his human heritage. The light indicating the passage of floors ticks by entirely too slowly, interminably dragging out the moment until he will be capable of introducing more space between them. The stairs would have been a better choice indeed.

…

The end of the work week is, as ever, heralded by what could nearly be termed a stampede of footsteps in the hall. The final lectures have been let out for the afternoon and along the length of the hall, offices open and are quickly vacated.

In his own, Uhura hooks her arm over the back of her chair and twists further towards him. "Really."

"That is what the research showed."

"Huh," she says. Her heel drumming against the rung of her chair does not indicate the direction of her thoughts, though her tone does not suggest she is convinced. "I just would have thought that the study would have demonstrated a greater statistical effect."

At the gym, he considers her doubt further, the rhythm and ritual of suus mahna accompanying his thoughts. So too does he dwell on the topic on the walk to his quarters and while he cooks dinner, slicing through a carrot and contemplating her words. After he eats, he reaches for his ka'athrya as is his habit, only to replace it on its stand and continue to hover in front of it, his mind working. Indeed, he can think of nothing else, not when he turns on his monitor to watch the latest news report from Shi'Kahr, a nightly ritual he never quite abandoned despite the years since he has lived there, nor when he types out a response to his mother's latest message. In all reality, his thoughts are so thoroughly occupied that at length, the only logical option appears to be to indulge them.

The article in question takes him some time to locate. He finally finds it on the bottom shelf of his bookcase, shuffled there with a number of other padds he has not needed to make use of in some time. Sitting on the edge of his couch, he reads it through twice. The research design is logically sound. Stratified random assignment by species, gender, and education level, with a suitably populated control group and low attrition among participants, though has he examines the provided regression table, for the first time since his initial read of the paper he reassesses his perspective on their predictor variables and the interaction effects they chose to include.

He lowers the padd to his lap, considers for only a moment, and then uploads the paper to send to Uhura, hesitating only when he attempts to add an accompanying message. For your further consideration. Immediately, he deletes it. I believe you may have had a pertinent point. No, it it is not that he believed that, he was unsure this afternoon and now he knows that she does. He erases that line as well. This may be of interest to you. That is accurate, at least. He stops himself from tapping his finger on the edge of his padd when he realizes he has begun to do so. He is uncertain as to whether more is required. He begins to write his name only to stop as she surely will know who the message is from, both from the attached file as well as his name and rank in his ID. Have a pleasant evening, he adds. He looks outside. It is completely dark out. It might, in fact, be night though the differentiation between evening and nighttime has never fully been explained to him. Enjoy your weekend, he writes instead. That is certainly suitable.

It takes him longer than it should to finally send the message, as he continues rereading the two lines over and over again until he forces himself to stop.

…

She is looking directly at him. He resists the urge to turn over his shoulder and check if there is something of interest on the wall behind him. He would not do so anyway, for one because he is certain there is not and two, he is equally sure that it is him that she is looking at.

Her attention on him is… confusing. Though perhaps not uncomfortably so, which is further confounding as he is not entirely at ease being the subject of any scrutiny.

"Yes?" he asks, though when she simply blinks at him, he realizes that she was not, in fact, seeking to garner his attention.

"What?" She very slightly shakes her head and then her eyes widen. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I just-"

She turns to her desk and goes so far as to raise her hand to her face, seemingly to block their view of each other, though she quickly returns it to her work surface, picks up her stylus, sets it back down, and then reaches for her padd.

She stares down at it, though her eyes do not seem to be moving. "Are you well?"

"Yep," she nods. She brushes her hands down her skirt where it covers her thighs. "Yes, sir, I mean."

She does not raise her attention from her work for the remainder of her shift, nor does she ever provide him with an explanation.

When he twice realizes that he is doing the same as she was, his eyes on her with no real intention behind the study of her, he decides he is not in need of clarification and busies himself with his own work, bending over his desk and attempting to keep his attention there, despite a strong compulsion otherwise.

…

Given the hour, he did not anticipate that anyone else would be in the building, though of anyone who would have chosen to spend their evening at work, he supposes it would follow that it would be Uhura.

However, he did not foresee that she would not be in her uniform, but instead in civilian clothes, nor that she would be sitting at her desk with one hand fisted in her hair and her eyes squeezed shut tightly as she speaks to herself.

"Cadet?" he asks and she startles so thoroughly that her stylus falls from her fingers to skitter across the floor.

He retrieves it for her, as she is currently sitting stock still with her hand pressed to her chest.

When she finally takes it from him, their fingers pass close enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin.

He grips his padd with both hands.

"I did not intend to disturb you," he says at length, when they have both just continued to watch the other. Humans are not predisposed to long silences. He learned that quickly upon his entry into the Academy, though it would seem that it bothers Uhura less than most others.

"I was just going over some homework," she says, though that is of course obvious to him.

Still, he has come to learn that humans expect some type of response and while he is certain Uhura would excuse him the effort of replying to such an inane statement, he is willing to offer it nonetheless. "I see."

He begins sorting through the padds he left on his desk, though even with his back to her he can tell she has not resumed her work. Perhaps he is distracting her. In that case, he will not linger.

"Sir?"

"I will not disturb you much longer."

"No, I… May I ask you a question?"

His hands still. He turns. It would not be inaccurate to inform her that she just did, though his attempts at Terran humor often are in vain and tonight especially she does not seem disposed to an overly elated mood. Rather, her bottom lip is drawn between her teeth and she bites at it hard enough that he supposes there must be some pain.

"Of course."

"I'm having some trouble calculating this warp vector," she says, which is not an inquiry. Regardless, he steps close enough that standing behind her, he can see her padd.

"Has your class covered yet how to account for the presence of solar winds?" he asks her before he can remember that it is considered rude on Earth to read from a position over another's shoulder.

"Aren't you busy?" she asks as he pulls the chair that normally sits in front of his desk, placed there for visitors, over next to hers.

"I was only coming by to retrieve a document," he tells her, though in truth he had meant to do so in order to return to his apartment and peruse it in the relative comfort of his quarters, rather than his office. Though it is really no matter at all. That work is hardly pressing and it would not be the first evening he fills with some menial task to distract from the silence of his rooms.

And regardless, he enjoys teaching. Watching dawning realization take hold in a student has always been satisfying to a degree he never would have anticipated upon accepting the position as an instructor, and with Uhura it is even more so.

For a moment she just looks at him before she turns back to her padd. "We went over it this week."

His stylus is on his desk. When he gestures for hers, she hands it to him, the casing foggy with the imprint of her touch. "Then if you account for the strength of the flow of ionization from the nearest star," he begins and points the tip of her stylus to where the information needed is outlined in the question before he quickly writes down the pertinent equation.

She props her elbow on the edge of her desk and holds the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. With her eyes closed, she says, "I'm really bad at this."

That is obvious. Not only was it apparent from her exam, but the number of times she has tried and failed to correctly complete her homework is evidence enough, crossed out calculations filling nearly the entirety of the filmplast in front of her.

"The material is difficult to grasp," he offers. For some. Not for everyone, but clearly it is for her.

The skin at her temple creases as she squeezes her eyes shut. "Impossible," she corrects.

"You possess sufficient intelligence."

Her laugh when she expels it is far shakier than any he has ever heard from her. "Doubtful."

"Cadet…"

"I never wanted you to know this," she says, but does not specify what 'this' is, or why she then asked for his help, or why she continues to sit there next to him, if none of it was her intention.

He could excuse himself. She must have classmates willing to help, for she certainly has on more than one occasion offered assistance to other students when they were in a similar state of need, though that no more explains why she is alone in his office at night than she made clear why she shared any of this with him if she did not mean to.

"I failed to pass an engineering exam during my second year." He did not need to tell her that, and he does not add that it was because he decided not to study for it, sure that his memory of the material covered in class would be sufficient. She at least achieved passing marks on her midterm exam, albeit barely so. Though at least his statement does have the equalizing factor of making two of them who perhaps did not entirely think through their statements. Illogical. Completely so, to speak without proper consideration.

He believes the silence that they sit in could technically be termed awkward, but he is not certain. Regardless, when she eventually removes her hand from her face, her eyes are redder than is typical and she keeps her gaze on her padd.

"Really?"

"If it would be of any assistance, I can also tell you about the Interspecies Ethics paper that my instructor asked me to rewrite before she would accept it."

She looks at him from the corner of her eye. "Don't you teach that class?"

"Yes."

Her exhale is accompanied by an easing of the tension in her features. "That does help."

She draws her knees up, doing so by hooking her heels onto the rung of her chair. She must have removed her shoes some time ago, because her feet are only covered in socks. Her long fingers comb through her hair where it has fallen forward and he does not watch as she tucks it behind her shoulder, his focus on her padd and the beginning of his explanation, not on the presence of her so close to him, nor the quiet of the building around them.

…

In the mornings when he arrives at his office, she often looks up at him and smiles. At the end of the day, she tells him to have a good night and more than once reminds him - needlessly so - that she will see him tomorrow.

When he makes himself tea and offers her a mug as well, she always accepts, going as far as to ask after the variety when it is one from Vulcan and not Earth, often repeating the word more than once to ensure proper pronunciation. Once he hands it to her, she sits with both hands around her mug, her legs crossed, and her focus on her reading.

It occurs to him that while he is typically inured to the progression of the semesters, letting the time pass as it will with no more thought to its advancement than how it affects the rhythm of his work, this semester he is aware in a way he has not been before of the date that finals will begin and the few days after them until Uhura's tenure in her position will come to a close.

Illogical, he instructs himself, to dwell on such a topic. He can no more stop the imminent end of the semester than he can draw out the days until then, and regardless it would not do to linger on such thoughts, especially when he is preoccupied with the welling disquiet that he increasingly must dispel every time he thinks of the time left, as well as the anticipation with which he greets mornings he will find her in his office, already at her desk and turning towards him with a greeting.