Just like Mercury

Andrew

It was a Monday morning. Andrew Mercer stood at the front of the lecture hall, his blue eyes scanning the rows of students as they settled in. His first day after summer break teaching a full course, and he was determined to make an impression. He wasn't here to be liked— he was here to teach.

"Welcome to Introduction to Quantum Mechanics," he began, his tone cool and professional. "I expect punctuality, attention, and—"
A hand shot up in the middle of the room, interrupting his flow. Without waiting to be acknowledged, a girl with big deer eyes and a mischievous smile spoke up. "Sorry, Professor, can I fill my water bottle at the sink over there?"

Andrew blinked, momentarily thrown off. He glanced at the small sink in the corner, more accustomed to rinsing lab equipment than hydrating students. "The water from that tap isn't very... delicious," he replied, his voice flat, unsure of how else to phrase it.

The girl tilted her head, her smile widening. "Why not?"
"It's not as cold as the water from the fountains outside," he explained, keeping his tone neutral. "If you want better water, I'd suggest going out."
She nodded thoughtfully, then abruptly turned on her heel and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Andrew called after her, more curious than concerned.
She glanced back over her shoulder, her grin playful. "I like delicious water."

The room fell silent as the door clicked shut behind her. Andrew stared after her for a moment, his thoughts interrupted for the first time since he started lecturing. He shook his head slightly, clearing his mind, and returned to the lesson.
But he couldn't quite shake the image of her smile. Or the fact that, for the first time in a long time, someone had surprised him.

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Dr. Andrew Mercer adjusted his glasses, his fingers lingering on the edge of his tie as he surveyed the lecture hall. It was a typical Wednesday  afternoon, and the room was packed with students ready for his Quantum Mechanics lecture. He was a young lecturer, barely thirty, with a sharp mind and a passion for the intricacies of the universe. Physics, to him, was poetry—though not everyone seemed to appreciate it.

As he began to explain the concept of wave-particle duality, his eyes scanned the room, catching the attentive gazes of his students.
Chloe sat in the second row, her auburn hair catching the light as she tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. She had an air of quiet confidence about her, and when their eyes met, Andrew felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth stir within him.

He quickly looked away, focusing on the blackboard as he wrote out the equation. Yet, he could feel her gaze, steady and unyielding, as if she was watching not just him, but through him. He found it oddly unsettling and intriguing at the same time.

The class continued, and Andrew tried to push the thought of her to the back of his mind. But when he asked a question about the Schrödinger equation, she was the first to raise her hand.
"Yes?" he acknowledged her, trying to keep his voice even.
"Is it safe to say Schrödinger just really didn't like cats?" she asked, her tone light, but her eyes serious.
A few students chuckled, but Andrew blinked, momentarily thrown off. It took him a second to realize she was joking—about the famous thought experiment, no less. He smiled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond.
"Well, I suppose you could see it that way," he replied, his voice faltering slightly. "Though I think it's more about illustrating quantum superposition than a personal vendetta against cats."

Her smile widened, and she nodded, satisfied with his answer, but there was a glint in her eyes that suggested she wasn't done with him yet.

Over the next few weeks, Andrew found himself increasingly aware of her presence. She attended every lecture, always sitting in the same seat, always with that same amused look on her face. She asked questions—clever, insightful ones—but there was always that undercurrent of humor that left him flustered.
Once, after class, she approached him with a smirk.

"Dr. Mercer, do you think particles have a sense of humor?" she asked, her tone teasing.
He blinked, caught off guard again. "I—I'm not sure particles have enough consciousness to appreciate humor," he stammered, feeling foolish the moment the words left his mouth.
She laughed softly. "Maybe that's why they're so unpredictable," she said, giving him a wink before walking away, leaving him standing there, feeling a bit dazed.

It wasn't that he didn't understand humor. He was just more accustomed to the dry with exchanged in academic circles, not the playful banter she seemed to enjoy. But there was something about her that fascinated him, drew him in.