Page 87 of Plaything

In response, I glanced down at his pen, “And you’re grading in red ink because it’s supposed to be intimidating,” I shrugged.

Dominic muffled a laugh, “Is that what students think?”

I nodded, “What other reason could you have for grading in red? Blue or black is less harsh,” I explained. I’d had conversations with my peers about this and read an article about it. They weren’t as sneaky as they think.

Aiden and Niko took their own seats on the sofas, each of us with some kind of paperwork in front of us. Aiden looked intrigued, “Yes, but also, students write in blue and black. Red is noticeable against those colors, so our notes are more visible,” he refuted.

“If that’s true, why not write in purple? Or any color that stands out?” I smirked.

The four of them shared a perplexed look as if trying to think of an excuse or answer to my question.

Wyatt turned towards me, placing his pen down while crossing his arms. “Your argument is that red is supposed to be intimidating?” He started, and I could tell I had them tightly wound.

I nodded, keeping my confident smugness. I was arguing (a friendly argument) with four professors, and I had to hold my ground.

“But red ink is also romantic? Does that mean we romanticize incorrect answers? No. Sometimes, a color is simply a color,” he said, matching my demeanor.

Keeping my response quick, I also crossed my arms, “Hm, so you think red is romantic. That would mean you associate color with emotion. So, is color just a color? Or are you unconsciously using it to intimidate students?”

Dominic smirked at me, “You took debate, didn’t you?”

“Aced it.” I didn’t care much for confrontation, but I loved a friendly debate.

Aiden looked proud as he leaned back. “You’re right. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

I smiled, “Yes.” Filled with satisfaction, I started working on my four pages of equations.

Three hours had passed, and I was on page three of the equations—my brain slowly becoming mush. Niko practically force-fed me a piece of toast. I admit I did feel better after I ate.

I somehow ended up on the ground, sitting at the large coffee table with the workbook in front of me. Niko was sitting on the couch behind me, and I felt his eyes heavily on my back.

Every once in a while, he would make a sound. It wasn’t exactly a groan, but it was like he was in pain. I made the same sound when I had period cramps. I didn’t question it; I just assumed he was annoyed at grading papers.

My other three professors had shifted as well. I never considered how much they had to grade. I’d always assumed students had more homework than professors. Their piles of work to be graded had a slight dent.

Overall, I was pleasantly surprised with the environment. I loved that we could all get our work done and didn’t have to try in each other’s presence. It felt so easy, and I basked in the comfort of the room.

Even with all of us working separately, I’d caught each of them staring at me—and vice versa. It made me feel like I was in high school again, getting giddy because my crush was caught looking.

Cat was curled up in my lap, happily asleep. Of course, he spent about an hour walking between the five of us and collecting any attention he could get.

My pencil glided swiftly across the paper as I continued working on an equation. Just as I wrote a number, I heard Niko make another sound. This time—I was almost sure it had something to do with my homework.

Glancing over my shoulder at him, I saw his eyes flicker away from my workbook. “What?” I deadpanned.

He looked at me with wide eyes. “What, me?” he gestured to himself innocently as if he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“You’ve been making noises every time my pen touches the paper, Niko. You’re driving me nuts.”

He remained still for a few seconds before he sighed in relief. “Well, since you asked,” he said, placing his laptop down and sliding down the couch, sitting on the floor behind me. His legs were on either side of my body as he excitedly grabbed my pencil from me.

Getting whiplash from his quick and excited movements, I tried not to laugh.

He erased a number I wrote: “Eight times thirteen is not 108; it’s 104,” he corrected. He placed the pencil in my hand again: “Try to solve it now,” he encouraged.

I was nervous about solving one of his problems while he was watching so closely. Still, I worked quickly and fixed everything else in the equation that my incorrect number affected. The final number made sense and wasn’t a decimal like my previous answer.

“See, it works a lot better when you don’t write the wrong number,” he smirked, pulling my calculator’s history—which read 104. I miswrote in front of a math professor.

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