It should be incongruous.
He eats lunch alone. She eats from his plate at dinner, his hand on her knee.
He is quiet, reserved, at work. His voice brims with excitement over tea on his couch.
He glances at her on the quad, greets her with ‘Cadet’, rests his forehead against hers in his entryway.
He folds his hands behind him as he lectures, grips her hips and pants into her neck.
It should be jarring. It isn’t.
She smoothes the collar of his uniform, he touches her cheek as they kiss each morning at his door.
“Nyota,” he whispers.