"...And therefore, Sir, we cannot prove that the limit exists."

He takes his seat demurely, having dumbfounded three Maths teachers in succession, by dint of shining, unadulterated genius. Textbook nerd.

But then he turns right around and sticks out his tongue at his best friend. Smugness has never been cuter. Unconventional cutie?

You're into leather and the badboy complex. He's all of five feet three inches, a bouncy, pocketsizednebula of brilliance around which normal-sized geeks cluster. At tiffintime they solve sums from six-inch-thick books. He shadowboxes, like a six-year-old, with a pen. They lay their (mathematical) problems at the altar of his genius.

The solutions invariably come in under a minute.

It's really no surprise when he's selected for the International Maths Olympiad.

"Congratulations," you say.

He's bubbling over with geeksy glee, talking to one of his guyfriends. His ears turn bright pink when you talk to him. His voice drops by about a hundred decibels. "Thanks," he mumbles, not even looking at you.

Oooo... someone's scared of girls.