Norman burst into the literature club meeting room like a tornado wearing sneakers, hair still damp from the quickest shower known to man, hoodie zipped crooked, one sleeve inside out. The old reading room in the back of the library smelled like lemon polish and ancient paper, with tall windows throwing golden afternoon light across mismatched armchairs and a long oak table already half-covered in notebooks and half-eaten granola bars. About fifteen people were scattered around, chatting in that low-key excited way book nerds do when they think no one's judging.
He spotted the empty chair near the window and dove for it, dropping his backpack with a thud that made the girl next to him jump. "Sorry," he muttered, cheeks already going pink. He tried to look chill. Failed miserably. His heart was doing cartwheels because Duke had mentioned he might "drop by" to give feedback on the upcoming poetry reading event. Might. That word had been living rent-free in Norman's head for three days straight.
The club president, a senior named Maya with purple streaks and a voice like warm honey, clapped her hands. "Okay, weirdos, let's get started! We're brainstorming the open mic lineup. Professor Brandon said he'd swing by around four to help with the theme. Something about 'fractured voices' or whatever poetic torture he loves."
A ripple of nervous laughter went around the room. Norman swallowed so hard his throat clicked. Fractured voices. Of course. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor.
He pulled out his notebook, flipped to a blank page, and started doodling storm clouds with little lightning bolts shaped like gray eyes. Real subtle, Reed. Real subtle.
The door opened at exactly 3:58.
Duke walked in wearing a navy sweater that looked soft enough to nap on and dark jeans that should be illegal on a professor. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd run his hands through it too many times, and there was a faint shadow under his eyes that made him look tired but somehow hotter. He carried a leather satchel slung over one shoulder and a stack of handouts in the other hand.
Every head turned.
Norman forgot how to breathe.
Duke's gaze swept the room, calm and professional, until it landed on Norman. For one split second his eyes darkened, pupils flaring like someone had flipped a switch. Then he looked away, cool as ice, and set his things on the table.
"Good afternoon," he said, voice low and smooth, the same voice that had whispered "careful what you wish for" against Norman's mouth three days ago. "I see you've already started without me."
Maya grinned. "We were warming up. You want coffee? We have the good stuff today."
"Black. Please."
While Maya poured, Duke pulled up a chair at the head of the table. Not next to Norman. Not across from him. But close enough that Norman could smell cedar and rain and whatever cologne Duke wore that should come with a warning label.
The meeting kicked off. People pitched poems. Someone wanted to do something angsty about climate change. Someone else wanted love poems that weren't cheesy. Duke listened, nodded, asked sharp questions that made people think twice about their choices. He was good at this. Really good. The room hung on his every word like he was handing out secrets to the universe.
Norman stayed quiet. Too quiet. He kept his head down, scribbling nonsense in his notebook, trying to look busy while his brain screamed "look at me look at me look at me." Every time Duke spoke, Norman's stomach did a backflip. Every time Duke laughed—low, rare, real—Norman's toes curled inside his sneakers.
Then Maya turned to him. "Norman? You've been suspiciously silent. Got anything for the mic?"
All eyes swung to him.
Including Duke's.
Norman felt the heat crawl up his neck. He cleared his throat. "Uh. Yeah. Maybe. I was thinking about doing something from Eliot. Prufrock again. But... shorter. The part about daring to eat the peach."
A few people chuckled. Someone muttered "classic freshman energy."
Duke leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced. His eyes were locked on Norman now, steady, unblinking. "Why that section?"
Norman met his gaze. Swallowed. "Because it's about taking the risk. About knowing you'll probably make a fool of yourself but doing it anyway. The peach is messy. Juicy. Forbidden. And the speaker still wants it."
The room went quiet.
Duke's mouth curved. Tiny. Dangerous. "Bold choice."
Norman shrugged, trying to play it cool even though his heart was trying to escape through his ribcage. "Sometimes bold is all you've got."
Duke held his stare for another heartbeat. Then he looked away, but not before Norman saw the flicker—something hot and hungry and terrified all at once.
The meeting rolled on. More ideas. More debate. Duke gave feedback, sharp and fair, making people laugh and rethink and nod like disciples.
When it wrapped up, everyone started packing. Maya thanked Duke profusely. People drifted out in twos and threes.
Norman took his sweet time zipping his backpack. Slow. Slower. Until the room was almost empty.
Duke stayed seated, pretending to organize his handouts.
Finally it was just them.
Norman stood. Shouldered his bag. Walked toward the door. Paused.
Turned back.
Duke was watching him. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. Hands flat on the table like he was holding himself in place.
Norman smiled. Small. Reckless. "Thanks for coming, Professor."
Duke's voice came out rough. "Anytime, Mr. Reed."
Another beat.
Norman took one step closer. "You okay?"
Duke laughed once, short and shaky. "No. You?"
"Not even a little."
They stared at each other across the empty chairs.
The air crackled.
Duke stood up slowly. Took one step. Then another. Until he was right in front of Norman, close enough that the heat between them felt like a living thing.
"You shouldn't have come today," Duke murmured.
Norman tilted his chin up. "But I did."
Duke exhaled hard through his nose. "You're going to be the death of me."
Norman grinned. "Promise?"
Duke's hand lifted. Hesitated. Then brushed Norman's cheek—just once, feather-light, gone before Norman could lean into it.
"Get out of here before I do something stupid," Duke whispered.
Norman backed up one step. Then another. Toward the door.
But he never broke eye contact.
At the threshold he paused. Gave Duke one last look—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, lips curved in a smile that said everything.
"See you in class, Professor."
The door swung shut behind him.
Duke stood alone in the golden light.
He pressed two fingers to his cheek where he'd touched Norman.
His hand shook.
He laughed—low, helpless, wrecked.
And whispered to the empty room,
"I'm so screwed."
Outside, Norman walked fast across the quad, heart pounding, cheeks burning, grinning like an idiot.
Because he knew one thing for sure.
Duke wasn't pushing him away anymore.
He was pulling him closer.
And neither of them was fighting it.
Not really.
Not anymore.