The campus café smelled of burnt espresso and cinnamon, the kind of scent that clung to clothes and hair long after you left. Norman pushed through the glass door at exactly 4:17 p.m., telling himself he was only here for caffeine, telling himself he had not spent the last forty-eight hours replaying every syllable Duke had spoken in that office, telling himself he was not hoping against every rational thought that the professor might appear.
He lied to himself beautifully.
The place was crowded, late-afternoon rush of students killing time between classes or pretending to study. Norman wove through the tables, hoodie up, shoulders hunched, trying to look like he belonged among the chatter and laughter. He ordered a large black coffee because it was the cheapest thing on the menu and because it felt appropriately adult. When the barista handed him the cup, their fingers brushed for half a second. Norman flinched like he had been burned. He was already too raw, too sensitive, every touch amplified into something dangerous.
He turned to leave.
And walked straight into a solid chest.
Coffee sloshed over the rim, scalding his thumb. He hissed, jerked back, looked up.
Duke Brandon stood there, holding a to-go cup of his own, expression unreadable except for the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth.
Time stopped.
The noise of the café faded to a dull roar in Norman's ears. He could hear his own heartbeat, loud and embarrassing. Duke's gray eyes flicked down to the coffee dripping from Norman's hand, then back up to his face. For one terrifying second, those eyes darkened, pupils expanding like ink in water.
"Careful," Duke said, voice low enough that only Norman could hear it over the din.
Norman opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Duke reached past him without hesitation, grabbed a stack of napkins from the counter, and pressed them into Norman's free hand. Their fingers touched again. This time the contact lingered. Duke's skin was warm. His knuckles were slightly rough, like he spent time doing things with his hands that had nothing to do with grading papers.
Norman stared at the napkins like they were foreign objects.
Duke's voice dropped even lower. "You're going to burn yourself."
The words were simple. Practical. Kind.
They felt obscene.
Norman finally managed to speak. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you."
"Obviously." Duke's tone was dry, but there was no bite in it. He stepped to the side, giving Norman space to blot at his hand. "You're always looking down when you walk."
Norman's cheeks flamed. "I don't… I mean, I do. Sometimes. When I'm thinking."
Duke watched him mop up the spill, eyes tracking every movement. "And what were you thinking about just now?"
Norman's hand froze.
He could not answer that question. Not here. Not ever.
Duke waited. Patient. Merciless.
"I was thinking about the assignment," Norman lied. "The close reading. Trying to decide which poem to pick."
Duke's mouth curved, just the tiniest fraction. "Liar."
The single word landed like a punch to the solar plexus.
Norman's breath caught. He looked up, wide-eyed, heart hammering so hard he was sure Duke could see it through his hoodie.
Duke leaned in slightly, just enough that the scent of his cologne—something sharp and cedar-edged—wrapped around Norman like smoke.
"You've been thinking about me," Duke said, voice barely above a whisper. "Don't insult us both by pretending otherwise."
Norman's knees nearly buckled.
He stared at Duke's mouth. The way the lower lip was fuller than the upper. The faint shadow of stubble that had grown since morning. The tiny scar at the corner that Norman had never noticed before.
Duke noticed him noticing.
His eyes darkened further.
Then he straightened, breaking the spell with deliberate slowness. He lifted his own coffee to his lips, took a sip, never looking away.
Norman's throat worked on a hard swallow. "I should go."
"You should," Duke agreed.
Neither of them moved.
The café kept spinning around them—students laughing, chairs scraping, the espresso machine hissing—but it all felt distant, unimportant.
Duke spoke again, quieter still. "You have class in twenty minutes. Introduction to Composition. Room 214."
Norman blinked. "How do you know my schedule?"
"I read the roster." Duke's tone was matter-of-fact. "I make it a point to know who's in my classes. And who shows up at my office hours. And who lingers in hallways when they think I'm not looking."
Norman's face burned hotter than the coffee had.
Duke's gaze softened, just for a second. "You're not subtle, Norman."
The sound of his first name in that voice was devastating.
Norman had never heard anyone say it like that—like it was something precious and dangerous at the same time.
He clutched the napkins tighter. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Duke asked. "For being nineteen? For feeling things too intensely? For wanting something you're not supposed to want?"
All of it. None of it. Everything.
Norman couldn't answer.
Duke exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a sigh. "Go to class. Pay attention. Take notes. Be brilliant. That's what you came here for."
Norman nodded, numb.
Duke stepped back, giving him room to pass.
Norman took one step. Then another.
At the door he paused, looked back.
Duke was still standing there, coffee in hand, watching him with an expression that bordered on pain.
Their eyes met across the crowded room.
Norman's heart cracked open, just a little.
He pushed through the door into the cold afternoon air.
He walked fast, almost running, until the café was out of sight.
Only then did he stop, press his back against the brick wall of the library, and slide down until he was sitting on the cold ground.
He buried his face in his hands.
He could still smell cedar on his skin.
He could still hear that voice saying his name.
He could still feel the weight of those gray eyes burning into him.
Inside the café, Duke remained exactly where Norman had left him.
He stared at the door long after the boy had disappeared through it.
His fingers tightened around the paper cup until it creased.
He closed his eyes.
The memory of Norman's wide blue gaze, the way his lips had parted when Duke said his name, the faint tremble in his hands—it all crashed over him like a wave.
Duke opened his eyes.
He looked down at the coffee in his hand.
It had gone cold.
He set it on the nearest table, untouched.
Then he walked out the side exit, into the wind, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
He told himself he would not think about the boy again today.
He told himself he would keep distance.
He told himself many things.
None of them mattered.
Because three buildings away, Norman Reed sat on the ground outside the library, forehead pressed to his knees, whispering to himself over and over,
"I'm going to see you again."
And somewhere in the space between them, the invisible thread that had started in a lecture hall pulled tighter.
Tighter.
Tighter still.
Until it hurt.
Until it felt like breathing.
Until neither of them could pretend it was anything less than fate reaching out to strangle them both.