Norman didn't sleep. Not really. He tossed around like a fish on dry land until the sky turned that ugly gray-blue color, then gave up and stared at the ceiling cracks until his eyes burned. Caleb snored like a chainsaw the whole time, blissfully unaware that Norman's entire world was currently hanging on one email notification that never came. By 7 a.m. he was already showered, dressed in his nicest hoodie (the navy one that didn't have any holes), and pacing the dorm hallway like a caged animal. Office hours didn't start until three. That left eight hours to lose his mind completely.
He skipped breakfast. Food felt like betrayal. Instead he wandered to the library, claimed a corner table nobody ever wanted because it smelled faintly of old socks, and opened his laptop. The sent email stared back at him like a crime scene photo. He reread his own words for the tenth time that morning and wanted to crawl under the table and die. What kind of idiot sends a love letter disguised as homework? Him. That's who.
The clock crawled. Classes dragged. He doodled in the margins of his notes during Comp 101—little storm clouds and gray eyes and thumbs on throats—until the professor called him out and he blushed so hard the girl next to him asked if he was having an allergic reaction. He mumbled something about pollen and sank lower in his seat. Every tick of the clock felt personal. Every second was Duke deciding whether to report him, laugh at him, or—worst of all—ignore him completely.
By 2:50 he was outside the office door again, heart doing gymnastics in his chest. He'd practiced what he would say in the mirror: casual, mature, not desperate. "Hey Professor, about the paper…" Yeah, that was smooth. Total lie. He was desperate. Desperate enough to chew his thumbnail down to nothing while he waited for the clock to hit three.
At exactly 3:00 he knocked. Three quick taps, like he was afraid of waking a sleeping monster. The door opened almost immediately. Duke stood there in a charcoal sweater that hugged his shoulders just right, sleeves pushed up, looking unfairly good for someone who probably hadn't slept either. His eyes were tired, but sharp. Always sharp.
"Come in, Mr. Reed."
Norman stepped inside like he was walking into a lion's den wearing a meat suit. The office smelled like coffee and old books and something faintly cedar that made his knees weak. Duke closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded final.
"Sit."
Norman sat. Same creaky chair. Same death grip on his backpack straps. He tried to look normal. Failed spectacularly.
Duke didn't sit behind the desk this time. He leaned against it instead, arms crossed, close enough that Norman could count the tiny silver hairs at his temples. Up close like this, Duke looked younger. And older. All at once. Dangerous combination.
"I read your paper," Duke said. Voice low. Careful. Like he was handling broken glass.
Norman swallowed. "Yeah. I figured."
A beat of silence. Thick. Heavy. The kind that makes your ears ring.
Duke pushed off the desk, walked around to stand right in front of Norman's chair. Norman had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. Bad move. Those gray eyes were stormy today. Full of lightning.
"It was…" Duke paused, searching for the word. "…brave."
Norman let out a shaky laugh. "Or stupid."
"Maybe both." Duke's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. "You didn't follow a single formatting rule. No double-spacing. No citations. No Works Cited. Technically it's garbage."
Norman's stomach dropped through the floor. "So… Incomplete?"
Duke looked down at him for a long moment. Then he reached out—slow, deliberate—and placed one hand on the back of Norman's chair. The other hand landed on the armrest. Norman was caged. Not touching. But close enough that the heat from Duke's body made the air between them shimmer.
"I'm giving you an Incomplete," Duke said quietly. "But not because the paper is bad. Because it's too honest for an assignment. Too personal. Too… dangerous."
Norman's heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was sure Duke could hear it. "Dangerous how?"
Duke leaned in just a fraction. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Because it's not about Prufrock, Norman. It's about you. And me. And the line we're both pretending isn't there."
Hearing his first name again felt like getting punched in the chest with a velvet glove. Norman couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Could only stare up at the man who'd haunted every waking (and sleeping) second since day one.
Duke continued, voice rougher now. "You wrote that you're not afraid of the fracture lines anymore. That's a lie. You're terrified. I can see it in your eyes right now."
Norman's throat clicked when he swallowed. "Are you?"
Duke's gaze flickered. Something raw flashed across his face—pain, hunger, fear—all at once. "Every damn second."
The room was suddenly too small. Too hot. Too everything.
Norman's voice came out small. "Then why are you still standing there?"
Duke's hand tightened on the chair back. His knuckles went white. "Because if I move any closer, I won't be able to stop."
Norman's breath hitched. "Maybe I don't want you to stop."
Duke closed his eyes. Hard. Like he was fighting a war inside his own head. When he opened them again, they were dark. Possessive. Terrifying.
"Careful what you wish for, kid."
The word 'kid' should have stung. Instead it lit something reckless inside Norman's chest. He leaned forward—just an inch—but it was enough. Their faces were so close now that Norman could feel Duke's breath against his lips.
"I've been careful my whole life," Norman whispered. "I'm tired of careful."
Duke made a sound—low, almost a growl. His hand slid from the chair to Norman's jaw. Not grabbing. Just… holding. Thumb brushing the corner of Norman's mouth. The touch was electric. Norman's eyes fluttered shut.
Duke's voice was wrecked. "You have no idea what you're asking for."
Norman opened his eyes. Met Duke's gaze head-on. "Then show me."
For one endless heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Duke's thumb pressed harder against Norman's bottom lip. Just enough to part it slightly.
And the world tilted.
The office door was locked.
The blinds were half-closed.
The clock kept ticking like nothing was happening.
But everything was happening.
Duke leaned in.
Closer.
Closer.
Until their foreheads touched.
And in that tiny, fragile space between them, Duke whispered against Norman's mouth,
"You're going to ruin me."
Norman smiled—small, shaky, reckless.
"Good."
The door stayed closed.
The clock kept ticking.
And neither of them moved away.