The hallway outside Professor Brandon's office smelled of coffee gone cold and the faint, dusty sweetness of old books left open too long. Norman stood three paces from the door marked with a simple brass plate—Duke Brandon, Ph.D.—and felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff he had already jumped from. His backpack hung heavy on both shoulders now, straps cutting into skin that still felt raw from yesterday's rain. He had changed shirts three times that morning. The first had been too wrinkled, the second too tight across the chest, the third—the pale gray one he was wearing now—felt safe. Neutral. Forgettable.
He wanted to be unforgettable.
The clock on the wall at the end of the corridor ticked past 3:02 p.m. Office hours had started two minutes ago. Norman had been here since 2:45, pacing the length of the hall, pretending to check his phone, pretending to read the bulletin board announcements about poetry slams and thesis deadlines. Every time footsteps echoed from the stairwell he froze, heart slamming against his ribs, convinced it was Duke.
It never was.
Finally, at 3:01, he had forced himself to stop moving. To breathe. To lift his hand and knock.
Three soft raps.
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder this time.
"Come in," came the low, familiar voice from the other side.
Norman's stomach flipped so violently he almost turned and ran.
He opened the door instead.
The office was smaller than he had imagined. Bookshelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, overflowing with volumes whose spines had been broken and repaired so many times they looked like wounded soldiers still standing at attention. A single window let in muted afternoon light, filtered through half-closed blinds. The desk was dark walnut, massive, scarred with years of use. Papers were stacked in careful piles, a fountain pen lying across the top like a warning.
And behind the desk sat Duke Brandon.
He had shed the blazer. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with quiet strength and dusted with dark hair. The top two buttons were undone—had they been undone in class yesterday? Norman couldn't remember. He only knew that the sliver of skin at the base of Duke's throat was visible now, shadowed and tempting, and it made Norman's mouth go dry.
Duke looked up from the essay he was reading. Red ink still stained the tip of the pen he held loosely between long fingers.
"Mr. Reed."
Just his name. Spoken quietly. Almost gently.
Norman's knees threatened to give out.
"Hi," he said, and immediately hated how small his voice sounded. He cleared his throat. "Professor. I—um. I hope I'm not interrupting."
"You're right on time." Duke set the pen down, leaned back in his chair, and gestured to the single wooden chair opposite the desk. "Sit."
Norman sat.
The chair creaked under him. He set his backpack on the floor between his feet, hands clasped so tightly in his lap that his knuckles turned white. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck again, the same traitor blush that had betrayed him in the lecture hall.
Duke watched him.
Not impatiently.
Not curiously.
Just… watched.
Like he was studying a poem he hadn't quite decided how to interpret yet.
Norman forced himself to speak before the silence could swallow him whole.
"I had a question about the syllabus," he said, the lie tasting metallic on his tongue. "About the first paper. The close reading assignment. It says five to seven pages, but it doesn't specify formatting. Double-spaced? MLA? I just… wanted to make sure I get it right."
Duke's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. More like the shadow of one.
"Double-spaced. MLA. Standard margins. Times New Roman, twelve point. Nothing exotic." He paused. "You could have emailed me."
Norman swallowed. "I know. I just… thought it would be better to ask in person."
The silence stretched again.
Duke tilted his head slightly, studying Norman's face with slow, deliberate care. The gray eyes were unreadable, but there was something in them—something that made Norman's pulse stutter.
"You're very diligent," Duke said finally. "Most students wait until the night before to panic about formatting."
"I like to be prepared."
Duke's gaze dropped to Norman's hands, still clenched in his lap. Then back up.
"You're also nervous."
Norman's breath caught.
"I—"
"Don't deny it." Duke's voice was soft, almost kind. "Your hands are shaking. Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing is shallow. You're nervous."
Norman wanted the floor to open and swallow him. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to lean across the desk and beg Duke to stop seeing him so clearly.
Instead he forced a laugh. It came out shaky.
"I guess I'm not used to professors noticing things like that."
"I notice a lot of things," Duke said.
The words hung between them like smoke.
Norman's heart was beating so hard he was sure Duke could see it through his shirt.
Duke leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced beneath his chin.
"Tell me the real reason you're here, Mr. Reed."
Norman's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I…" He licked his lips. "I liked your lecture yesterday. A lot. I've never had a teacher talk about poetry like it's… like it's alive. Like it hurts. I just wanted to… I don't know. Say thank you. I guess."
Duke watched him for another long moment.
Then he leaned back again, breaking the intensity of the gaze, and Norman felt like he could breathe for the first time since walking through the door.
"You're welcome," Duke said simply.
Norman should have left then. He knew he should have. Thank you, goodbye, see you in class. But his body refused to move.
Instead he heard himself ask, "Why do you teach modernist poetry?"
Duke's brows lifted slightly. Surprise flickered across his face—gone so quickly Norman might have imagined it.
"Because it's honest," Duke answered after a pause. "The modernists didn't try to make the world beautiful again after it broke. They showed the fracture lines. They refused to lie about the damage. I find that… comforting."
Norman stared at him.
Comforting.
The word sounded almost obscene coming from this man who looked like he had never been comforted by anything in his life.
"I think I understand that," Norman said quietly. "About the fracture lines."
Duke's eyes narrowed. "Do you?"
"I grew up in a town where everyone pretended everything was fine. My mom worked two jobs and still smiled like it didn't hurt. My dad left when I was eight and never came back. Nobody talked about it. They just… kept going. Like if they didn't say it out loud, it wasn't real." Norman's voice cracked on the last word. He looked down at his hands. "Sometimes I feel like I'm still waiting for someone to admit the world is broken. So I can stop pretending it isn't."
The office was silent except for the soft tick of a clock somewhere behind the shelves.
When Norman finally dared to look up again, Duke was watching him with an expression Norman couldn't name.
Not pity.
Not distance.
Something rawer.
Something that made Norman's chest ache.
Duke spoke, voice low and rough.
"You're very young to understand that kind of fracture."
"I'm not that young," Norman said, almost defiantly.
Duke's gaze dropped to Norman's mouth for the briefest second—then away again.
"You're young enough that the world still has time to surprise you," he said. "Be careful what you wish for."
Norman's breath hitched.
The air between them felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Duke cleared his throat. Picked up the pen again. Looked down at the essay he had been grading.
"I think that answers your question about the paper."
Dismissal.
Norman felt the word like a slap.
He stood slowly, legs unsteady.
"Thank you, Professor."
Duke didn't look up.
"You're welcome, Mr. Reed."
Norman turned toward the door.
He had his hand on the knob when Duke's voice stopped him.
"One more thing."
Norman froze.
Duke finally lifted his head.
"When you write your close reading," he said, "don't hide behind the text. Let it hurt. Let it show. That's the only way it matters."
Norman stared at him.
Duke held his gaze.
And for one endless heartbeat, the office felt too small for both of them.
Then Duke looked away.
Norman opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind him.
He stood there for a long time, forehead pressed against the cool wood, breathing hard.
His fingers touched his throat—right where Duke's thumb had brushed yesterday.
He could still feel it.
He walked away on unsteady legs, the corridor stretching longer than it should have.
Behind the closed door, Duke remained motionless at his desk.
The essay he had been grading lay forgotten.
His hand lifted slowly, fingers pressing against his own throat in the exact same spot he had touched Norman the day before.
He closed his eyes.
The pulse beneath his fingertips raced—too fast, too loud, too alive.
He opened his eyes again.
Looked at the chair Norman had sat in.
The seat was still warm.
Duke's jaw clenched so hard it ached.
He whispered to the empty room, voice barely audible even to himself,
"This is going to destroy me."
And somewhere down the corridor, Norman kept walking, heart pounding, mind spinning, already planning the next excuse to come back.
The hallway clock ticked past 3:25.
Office hours continued.
Neither of them was finished.