“Nobody mentioned there are two science buildings,” he snaps, voice sharp as a slap. “Or that Americans label things with letters instead of logic.”
“That’s just Yale,” I answer.
He startles, then flicks his gaze to me. Brown eyes. Jaw like a geometry proof. Posture like the prince of Bavaria just discovered dust.
“You understand German?” he asks.
“Ja,” I say. “I speak it.”
“And English,” he says slowly, measuring. “Without an accent.”
“Yes.”
He squints at me. “Where are you from, then? Your face says Slavic. Your posture says I don’t care. Your clothes say I escaped something.”
I stare at him. “You’re observant.”
“I’m nosy,” he corrects.
I shrug. “Russia.”
He raises his brows. “Ah. Poverty adjacent.”
I snort. “And you?”
“Oligarchy adjacent,” he says. “So practically the same thing.”
I blink. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
He grins. “I’m Lenzin Faulker. But call me Faulker. Everyone does.”
“Aleks,” I say.
He looks me up and down, not rudely—curiously. “Scholarship?”
“Yes.”
“Same,” he sighs. “Though my family insists on pretending I’m here for legacy reasons. As if my father is some titan of industry instead of a man who peaked in his twenties.”
I tilt my head. “You hate rich people?”
He throws his hands up dramatically. “I am rich people, unfortunately. But yes. I hate us.”
I like him immediately. We fall into step walking toward the dining hall. He talks fast, switching languages without noticing: German, English, then French when he swears at a cyclist. I answer back fluently each time.
Faulkner stops mid-step. “Wait. You speak French too?”
“Yes.”
“And Spanish?”
“Yes.”
“And Russian, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
He points at me. “I don’t trust people who hoard languages.”
