The lecture hall felt smaller today, like the walls had decided to squeeze everyone closer just to watch the drama unfold. Norman slid into his usual third-row seat exactly two minutes before class started, hoodie up, notebook open, pen tapping a frantic rhythm against the page that had nothing to do with poetry notes. His heart was doing that stupid flip-flop thing again, the one that started the moment he walked onto campus and realized Duke would be standing at the front of this room in approximately ninety seconds.
He kept his eyes glued to the blank page, doodling jagged little lightning bolts that looked suspiciously like gray irises. Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't—
The door at the front opened.
Duke walked in.
And Norman looked up.
Of course he did.
Duke was wearing the charcoal blazer again, sleeves pushed up just enough to show those forearms that had starred in Norman's dreams more times than he cared to admit. His hair was still slightly damp from whatever morning shower he took, one strand falling across his forehead like it had personally offended him. He set his satchel down with that same careful precision, then scanned the room.
Their eyes met.
Instantly.
Duke's gaze locked on Norman like a heat-seeking missile. For one heartbeat the entire lecture hall disappeared—gone were the creaking seats, the coughs, the rustle of backpacks. Just those stormy gray eyes boring straight into him, dark with something that looked like hunger and warning and regret all tangled together. Norman's breath caught so hard his chest ached.
Then Duke looked away.
Just like that.
Like flipping a switch.
Norman felt the absence like a slap.
He sank lower in his seat, cheeks burning, pen frozen mid-doodle. Okay. Fine. If Duke wanted to pretend nothing happened, two could play that game. Except Norman sucked at games. His heart was too loud, his hands too shaky, his brain too busy replaying the almost-kiss on a loop that would make any horror movie jealous.
Class started.
Duke launched into the lecture like nothing was wrong. Voice low, steady, cutting through the room with that effortless authority that made half the students sit up straighter. He talked about fragmentation again, about how the modernists took broken pieces and refused to glue them back together prettily. Every word felt aimed at Norman even though Duke never looked his way again.
Halfway through, the door creaked open.
A latecomer slipped in—tall, confident, dark curls bouncing, wearing a leather jacket that screamed "I know exactly how hot I am." He scanned the room, spotted an empty seat two rows ahead of Norman, and dropped into it with a grin aimed straight at the front.
At Duke.
Norman's stomach twisted.
The new guy—Liam, according to the roster Duke called out a minute later—leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled, pen twirling between long fingers like he owned the place. Every time Duke turned toward their section, Liam's eyes followed. Not subtle. Not even trying to be subtle. He smiled. Slow. Cocky. The kind of smile that said I see you, Professor, and I like what I see.
Norman's pen snapped in half.
Ink bled across his fingers.
He stared at the mess like it had personally betrayed him.
Duke paused mid-sentence.
His eyes flicked to Norman.
Then to the broken pen.
Then to Liam.
Something shifted in Duke's expression—tiny, almost invisible, but Norman caught it. A tightening of the jaw. A flicker in those gray eyes that went from calm to storm in half a second.
Duke continued talking.
But his voice had an edge now.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
When class finally ended, students started packing up. Liam stood slowly, stretching like a cat in sunlight, then sauntered toward the front. He stopped at the podium, leaned one hip against it, and said something low that made Duke's mouth twitch.
Norman couldn't hear the words.
He didn't need to.
He watched Duke nod once, curt, professional.
Watched Liam's grin widen.
Watched Duke's hand tighten around the edge of the podium until his knuckles turned white.
Norman stood up fast. Too fast. His chair scraped loud enough to make heads turn. He shoved his notebook into his backpack, ink-stained fingers leaving little black smears on the zipper. He needed air. Needed out. Needed anything except to stand here watching someone else get close to the man who'd almost kissed him three days ago.
He started up the aisle.
Liam turned just as Norman reached the door.
Their eyes met.
Liam's smile was lazy, knowing, the kind that said I know exactly what you're feeling right now, freshman.
Norman looked away first.
He pushed through the door into the corridor.
Cold air hit his face.
He walked fast. Faster. Until he was outside, rain starting again, fat drops splattering the cobblestones.
He stopped under the overhang of the library, back pressed to the stone wall, breathing hard.
His hands shook.
Ink still stained his fingers like evidence.
He closed his eyes.
Pictured Liam leaning against the podium.
Pictured Duke's jaw tightening.
Pictured the way Duke had looked at him when their eyes met—possessive, furious, helpless.
A tiny, reckless smile curved Norman's lips.
Because jealousy looked really good on Duke Brandon.
Really, really good.
And if that was the game now?
Norman was ready to play.
He pushed off the wall.
Rain soaked his hoodie in seconds.
He didn't care.
He turned back toward the lecture building.
Because somewhere in there, a professor was trying very hard to pretend he didn't want to burn the world down for a nineteen-year-old kid with ink on his hands and love in his eyes.
And Norman?
Norman was done pretending too.
He started walking.
Fast.
Straight back into the fire.
Because if Duke thought he could push him away and then get jealous when someone else looked twice?
Oh honey.
The game had just started.
And Norman was about to raise the stakes so high neither of them would ever come down.