"Done," I whispered to myself.
I woke him with a touch light enough that it barely qualified as contact — fingertips against his shoulder, his name said quietly. He stirred the way people do when sleep has been actually kind to them for once: slowly, reluctantly, with a kind of rumpled dignity.
His hair was slightly mussed. His glasses had slid down his nose. I had an inexplicable urge to straighten them that I firmly suppressed.
"Here you go," I said, sliding the laptop toward him. "I did my best to organize it into paragraphs and fix any typos I saw. Let me know if you need me to change anything."
He scanned the screen, arching his back in a long stretch, his spine cracking audibly.
"This looks more than adequate for a passing grade," he said.
High praise, apparently.
"Come with me to the printing station and then to the faculty office," he added, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm far too groggy to face the professor's lecturing alone."
My heart gave a small, involuntary flutter at the request. I told it to stop.
"Of course," I said.
We navigated the library aisles together, occasionally brushing arms where the shelves narrowed. Solomon collected the warm pages from the printer tray with the expression of someone retrieving a bill they'd been avoiding, and we stepped out into the autumn air.
The cold hit me immediately. I hadn't worn a thick enough jacket, and the wind had real teeth to it, cutting through the fabric like it had a grudge. I hugged my arms around myself and glanced sideways at Solomon, whose shoulders had hunched up around his ears.
Without quite thinking it through, I reached out and gently grasped his elbow, pulling him closer to my side.
"Lean against me," I said softly. "We can share body heat."
The words were out before I could second-guess them. I felt heat rush to my face immediately, and for a moment I was certain I'd overstepped somehow — that he'd give me a look and step away.
He didn't.
"Y-yes, that's... a logical idea since I'm quite sensitive to the cold," he said, and his voice had something different in it, something that made me press my lips together to hide an expression I couldn't name.
He leaned into me. His weight settled against my smaller frame, careful but genuine, and the warmth of him seeped into my side like sunlight through glass.
We walked like that all the way to the faculty building.
Standing at the professor's door, I felt my stomach turn over. I had no idea what kind of man was behind it. My experience with adults in positions of authority had not, historically, been encouraging.
"Are you ready for this?" I asked softly, looking up at Solomon.
"Let's just get this over with," he sighed, straightening his glasses. "Stay by my side."
I nodded, and followed him through the door.
The professor was a stern-faced man with brows like storm clouds and wire-rimmed glasses that seemed designed to make you feel guilty. He looked at Solomon, then at me pressed close to Solomon's side, with the expression of someone who has seen every excuse in the book and is already composing a response.
"What is it now, Mr. Day?" he said. "And who is this?"
I felt Solomon's hand tremble slightly as he held out the printed pages.
"I apologize for the delay, but a personal family matter required my full attention these past few days," Solomon said. His voice was smooth, which surprised me. "S-she is my girlfriend, and she's been helping me... manage things."
I heard the word and felt the room tilt slightly.
Girlfriend.
In that moment, standing in the fluorescent-lit office with the professor's stern eyes on me, something clicked into place. Solomon needed me to be this right now. Not because we had a deal — but because he was genuinely struggling to stand upright, and I was the thing keeping him there.
I stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Solomon's waist, holding him steady.
"Yes, I'm Solomon's girlfriend," I said. My voice came out clear. Clearer than I expected. "I've been helping him study and stay focused, especially during this difficult time. We both hope you can understand and accept his late submission."
I looked the professor in the eye and waited.
He scrutinized me for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression — not warmth, exactly, but a slight softening of the edges.
"Very well," he said, though his tone remained gruff. "I suppose I can make an exception, given the circumstances. But mark my words, Mr. Day, this better not happen again."
He took the papers and disappeared back into his office. The door closed with a sound like a verdict being delivered.
I exhaled so hard I felt slightly dizzy.
"That went... better than expected," I murmured, looking up at Solomon. "You okay? That was a lot of pressure."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he tightened his arm around me, and I felt his forehead come to rest briefly — gently — against my shoulder.
"Thank you, Kimmy." His voice was low and rough with exhaustion. "I honestly don't think I could have handled his temper if I were here alone. I'm completely drained after that social performance. You really saved me back there."
I stood very still, because I didn't trust myself to move.
Nobody had ever said that to me. Not like that — not with that quiet, genuine weight. Thank you was something people said when you held a door open, or handed them something they'd dropped. It wasn't usually said like this, like they actually meant it.
I started rubbing slow circles on his back. It felt like the right thing to do, and for once I didn't overthink whether the right thing to do was the right thing to do.
"You're welcome, Solomon," I said quietly, tilting my head to rest against his. "I'm glad I could help. You don't have to face everything alone, you know."
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes met mine, and the hallway — its fluorescent hum, its distant noise of passing students — faded into something irrelevant.
"I mean it," I said. "I'm here for you, whenever you need me. For anything at all."
My thumb moved across his cheekbone before I'd consciously decided to let it. Light, brief, like I was trying not to startle something that might otherwise bolt.
He cleared his throat. He looked at me for a moment that was just slightly longer than a normal moment.
"I want to make it up to you," he said quietly. "So let's go get something to eat." He adjusted his glasses, glancing toward the exit. "Do you have any more classes today, or are you free? I'd prefer to go while I'm still somewhat awake."
I stood there for a second, recalibrating. Eating together. He was asking me to eat dinner with him.
It sounded almost like a date.
A foreign concept, for me. An almost frightening one. But looking at Solomon's face — weary, earnest, with that subtle hopefulness barely visible beneath the exhaustion — I didn't feel frightened. I felt something closer to the opposite.
"No more classes," I said, and a real smile spread across my face, the kind that comes from somewhere unguarded. "And I'm starving, actually. Lead the way."
He smiled back. A small thing, rare-looking, like something that didn't come out very often. But there.
We walked out into the autumn evening side by side. The cold wrapped around us and I stepped a little closer to him without thinking about it, and he didn't step away. The campus was nearly empty now, most students retreated inside, and the wind moved through the trees in long, quiet sighs.
"There's a small, quiet place just around the corner that serves excellent soup," Solomon murmured, barely raising his voice above the wind. He checked his wallet as we walked. "It's my treat today, as a reward for your hard work. You earned it after dealing with that professor for me."
The warmth that moved through my chest at those words had nothing to do with the autumn cold.
"Wow, thanks Solomon," I said, glancing up at him. "You really didn't have to do that. But I won't say no to some yummy soup on a cold day like this."
He made a sound that was almost, almost, a laugh.
As we rounded the corner and the light from the café window appeared ahead of us, warm and golden and ordinary as anything, I found myself stealing glances at him. The wind had caught his hair. His glasses had slid down his nose again. I thought about reaching over and pushing them back up.
I didn't. But I thought about it.
And that, I realized — that small thought, that small want — was something I hadn't felt in a very long time.
Maybe this arrangement of ours wasn't entirely what I'd expected it to be.
Maybe that was all right.