GLASS ALGORITHMS

HE WATCHED ME BUILD IT

I preferred the engineering building after midnight, when the hallways stopped pretending they belonged to anyone important. During the day, the place buzzed with ambition and voices that knew where they were going. At night, it was just concrete, glass, and the low hum of machines that did not care who you were or where you came from. I liked that kind of honesty.

The lab lights cast a pale glow over my workstation, making the world beyond the windows feel distant and unreal. I sat cross-legged on the chair, one foot tucked under the other, my laptop balanced in front of me as lines of code scrolled past. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, but I kept it beside me anyway, as if abandoning it would mean admitting how long I had been there.

I ran the simulation again, watching the data populate with cautious optimism. The model stalled halfway through and froze.

I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, counting the breath the way I always did when frustration crept too close. Losing control never helped. I rewrote a portion of the algorithm, adjusted the parameters, and tried again.

This time, the system recalibrated.

Not perfectly, but enough that my shoulders loosened and a small, involuntary sound escaped my throat. Relief, more than joy. I leaned closer, scanning the output, afraid that if I celebrated too early it would collapse under the attention.

“That’s elegant.”

The voice behind me startled me badly enough that my fingers slipped off the keyboard.

I turned too quickly, chair scraping softly against the floor, and found Finn Ashcroft standing near the entrance to the lab with his hands in his jacket pockets. He looked relaxed, almost hesitant, as though he had not intended to interrupt whatever fragile moment he had walked into.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” I replied out of habit, even though my heart was still racing. “I just didn’t hear you come in.”

He glanced around the lab. “You were focused.”

“This area is restricted after ten,” I said, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Then I’m definitely trespassing,” he said lightly. “Do you want me to leave?”

The question caught me off guard. Most people assumed they were welcome wherever they chose to stand. Finn waited, genuinely, for my answer.

“I don’t like being watched,” I said after a moment.

He nodded and took a step back. “Then I won’t watch. I’ll just sit, if that’s okay.”

It was a strange compromise, but something about the way he offered it made refusal feel unnecessary. He pulled a chair from another table and sat at a respectful distance, turning his attention to his phone as if to prove he meant it.

I turned back to my screen, my focus slow to return. The lab felt different now, not invaded exactly, just altered, like a familiar room with a new piece of furniture.

After a while, I became aware of how quiet he was. No sighing. No tapping. No restless movements meant to hurry me along. When my shoulders began to ache, I paused and stretched my neck, and that was when he stood and walked over with a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t know how you take it,” he said softly. “So I guessed.”

Black. No sugar.

“Thank you,” I said, surprised despite myself.

“You’re welcome.”

We fell into a quiet rhythm after that, the kind that usually took weeks to establish. I coded. He read something on his phone. Occasionally he glanced over, but only when I leaned back or rubbed my eyes, never when I was deep in thought.

“What are you building?” he asked eventually.

My fingers hovered over the keys. “I’m still figuring out how to explain it.”

“Then don’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

The ease of that answer surprised me more than the question.

“You code too,” I said, noticing the way his eyes tracked the structure of my interface even from a distance.

“Yes.”

Nothing more. No résumé. No subtle bragging.

Later, when the song I had been listening to ended, he slid one earcup of his headphones toward me.

“This helps me think,” he said. “Maybe it’ll help you too.”

The music was slow and contemplative, the kind that filled space without demanding attention. I found myself smiling faintly.

“You have good taste,” I said.

“I’m relieved,” he replied. “I would hate to disappoint you so early.”

The comment made me laugh quietly before I could stop myself.

We talked after that, not about anything important, just small things that slipped easily into conversation. Classes. Campus rumors. How impossible it was to find decent food after midnight. It felt natural in a way that made me vaguely uneasy, like walking into a room and realizing you already knew where everything was.

When he finally asked why I leaned toward medical technology, the question felt gentle rather than intrusive.

“My mother died when I was ten,” I said, staring at the screen rather than his face. “They said if it had been caught earlier, she might have lived.”

He did not rush to respond. When he did, his voice was quiet.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I said automatically, then corrected myself. “It’s not, but I learned how to live with it.”

He nodded, as if that made sense.

I did not intend to show him anything, but at some point I turned my laptop slightly, just enough that he could see the framework. It was not the core of it, not the parts I guarded most fiercely, but it was enough to give shape to what I was trying to do.

He leaned forward, interest sharpening into something focused and respectful.

“This is really good,” he said. “You know that, right?”

I shook my head. “I just don’t like quitting.”

“That’s part of what makes it good.”

When we finally left the lab together, the campus was quiet and dim, the night air cool against my skin. He walked me halfway home, hands in his pockets, matching his pace to mine without comment.

“You should rest sometimes,” he said. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

I smiled, unsure how to respond.

Later, lying in bed, I realized I felt lighter than I had in months. I told myself it was just company, just conversation, just someone noticing the work I put into things.

I did not yet recognize the feeling for what it was.