But, he still, sometimes, when he thinks she’s had enough for one day, when her hair is falling out of the messy bun she’s pulled it up into and she’s cracking her knuckles and glaring at one of her textbooks and muttering under her breath about the patriarchy and the proletariat, he’ll creep his hand higher and higher up her thigh until she snaps her head in his direction and she’s nodding and pulling her books towards her and into her bag and wrapping her arm around his waist and he’s wrapping his around her shoulder and -