He doesn't love her.

No, in fact, Auguste Enjolras is at first annoyed at Eponine Thenardier. Her tardiness and the scattered nature of her brain, it reminds him of some of his more childish friends—one in particular comes to mind.

She rushes into the library, her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail still apparently damp from a recent shower. In tow is the standard athlete's backpack with the school logo; on her sweatshirt, the words "Track & Field" accompany the university's name. He should have known that accepting the Teaching Assistant role in his final year of undergraduate studies would mean devoting the precious hours of his day to athletes who could barely make a grade for eligibility.

She plops down on the seat across from him, taking out her books without speaking a word. He refuses to put away the copy of Immanuel Kant's The Science of Right in her presence, perhaps hoping that the meeting would be short enough to where he could resume his work until the early hours of the morning.

"Hi," she says quietly, the corners of her lips forming a smile and revealing deep dimples on both cheeks. He wasn't there to think about how the first thing he noticed was how bright her eyes shown despite their dark hue—he had better things to do. "I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late, I just—my printer wasn't working and-," he would soon find out how much truth was behind her excuses, but for now he is simply annoyed.

"Nevermind it," he says flatly as he takes out the notes to the assignment she mentioned in her e-mail. He didn't need the notes, certainly not to explain something as rudimentary as Descartes' substance dualism.

"Okay," she replies, before continuing. "I'm Eponine, by the way."

"I know," he replies shortly, flipping through pages of his pristine handwriting. He supposed that did come off as rude, and if he wanted a tolerable semester, being nice to his students was most likely beneficial. He looks up at her, his electrifying blue eyes meeting her bright browns. "Enjolras." His mouth forms what looked to be a small smile, and for a moment, he almost appeared to possess some sort of emotion.

She does not read into his statuesque nature, but instead smiles. "Oh, you're one of those last name guys," she comments lightheartedly, before pulling out a few sheets of paper and sliding them across the table. He does not respond as his eyes meet the short paper that she had attempted to write.

He can tell that she understands it—she is knowledgeable in the concept of substance dualism. Her arguments, however, are handled poorly and soon, her draft is filled with red cursive along the margins and bright yellow highlights.

"How do I know that Descartes believes the mind and body to be in constant interaction with each other?" he asks her, once more scanning the second page of her essay.

Her eyes widen at the question, and her body tenses with uncertainty. She has the tendency to be overwhelmed with nerves when put on the spot. "I, uhh, he talked about it in the text," she replies. "With the comparison to the ship and the sailor." She realizes that she may come off as incoherent, but at this point, she does not know what to do to even salvage her first impression.

"I didn't ask how you know, Eponine," he points out. The command in his voice is so prominent that the way her name rolls off his tongue reminds her of her father, or her coach, or anyone who had asked so much of her before. "How do I know?"

She looked at him in confusion. "You're the teaching assistant, you had to have at least read Meditations."

"How do you know that?" he asks her, pressing on.

"Well," she begins. "There are some things that are just known without saying—like I know you had to have read Meditations. And I'm guessing every other stupid philosophy book out there."

He almost rolls her eyes at her attempt at logic. "I may have, but your reader may have not," he explained. "And it would be helpful if you at least quoted the example because your argument completely jumps around without it."

She does not need to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "If my reader hasn't read it, I doubt he'd be reading some college sophomore's trainwreck of an argumentative paper," she argues. She knows that her point is valid, yet she too is aware that her teaching assistant is right. Letting out a deep sigh, she makes a note to add the quotation before handing the paper back for more comments from him.

Just two semesters of the absolutely useless subject was all that she needed to fulfill her core requirement, anyway.

He receives her paper the next week, a day before the due date. He comes across it in the middle of the pile and takes the red pen from behind his ear as he scans through the page. He found the quotation—accompanied by others scattered around the paper. Her arguments are well-detailed—she had taken his advice and applied it to a larger scale, and he declared to himself that perhaps she was a quick learner.

What most impressed him, however, was the voice that she applied to what could potentially be an incredibly dull topic. He could almost hear the sarcasm and the almost-laughing sound of her voice that he had picked up on during their meeting.

And when he hands the paper back to her, without many red marks, he watches her from the podium of the recitation classroom as her already-bright eyes light up upon seeing an A-.

Of course he couldn't give her the A. He didn't love it.

More importantly, he didn't love her.

I couldn't sleep without writing this, so I figured why not post it for people to maybe enjoy? The first chapter is short, but I wanted to portray its fleeting nature.

For now, reading and reviewing would be wonderful.

Much love, Rina (enjolrastic)