The library closed at midnight but the back stacks stayed open until one for "serious scholars" who knew how to sweet-talk the night guard. Norman had mastered the art weeks ago—big eyes, shy smile, a quiet "please" that worked better than any fake ID. Tonight he slipped through the heavy oak doors at 11:47, hoodie up, heart hammering like he was committing a crime. He wasn't. Not yet.
The main floor was deserted. Only emergency lights glowed, casting long blue shadows across the rows. He took the spiral staircase to the third floor, the one nobody ever bothered with because the poetry section smelled faintly of mildew and broken dreams. Perfect.
He found his favorite corner: a tiny alcove between towering shelves, hidden behind a rolling cart of forgotten journals. There was a single reading lamp bolted to the wall, its bulb weak and yellow, just enough light to make the pages glow without drawing attention. He dropped his backpack, sank cross-legged onto the worn carpet, and pulled out the anthology.
He didn't open it.
He sat there instead, knees hugged to his chest, staring at the dark space between the shelves like it might spit Duke out any second.
Because he knew.
Deep down, in the stupid hopeful part of his brain that refused to learn, he knew Duke came here late at night. He'd overheard a TA mention it once—Professor Brandon practically lived in the stacks when deadlines loomed, grading papers until the janitors kicked him out. Norman had filed that information away like a weapon. Tonight he was wielding it.
The clock above the stairwell ticked past midnight.
Then 12:15.
Then 12:32.
Norman's butt was numb. His hope was starting to feel pathetic.
He was about to give up, grab his bag, and slink back to the dorm when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Coming up the spiral stairs.
Norman's heart slammed into his throat so hard he tasted metal.
The footsteps reached the third floor.
Paused.
Then turned toward the poetry section.
Norman pressed his back against the shelf, breath shallow, trying to make himself small. The rolling cart hid him perfectly if the person didn't look too close.
The footsteps stopped at the end of the aisle.
A low sigh.
Then Duke's voice—soft, tired, talking to himself.
"Idiot. You should have stayed home."
Norman's stomach flipped. He peeked around the cart just enough to see.
Duke stood under the weak overhead light, blazer gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open, hair messier than usual. He looked exhausted. Beautiful. Dangerous. He held a stack of papers under one arm and a thermos in the other hand. He set both down on a nearby table, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered something Norman couldn't catch.
Then he started scanning the shelves.
Looking for something.
Looking for escape, maybe.
Norman should have stayed hidden.
Should have let Duke think he was alone.
But his body had other ideas.
He stood up.
Quietly.
The cart rolled an inch with a tiny squeak.
Duke froze.
His head snapped toward the sound.
Gray eyes met blue.
Time stopped.
Duke's expression went from tired to stunned to something darker in less than a heartbeat. "Norman."
Just his name.
Low.
Rough.
Like a warning and a prayer at the same time.
Norman stepped out from behind the cart, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets to hide how badly they were shaking. "Hi."
Duke exhaled hard through his nose. "What are you doing here?"
"Couldn't sleep." Norman shrugged like it was no big deal. "Thought I'd… read."
Duke's eyes narrowed. "At one in the morning. In the closed section."
Norman took one step closer. "You're here."
Duke's jaw tightened. "I work here."
Another step. "So do I. Sort of."
Duke watched him approach like a man watching a lit fuse burn toward dynamite. "This isn't a game, Norman."
Norman stopped just out of arm's reach. Close enough to see the tiny muscle jumping in Duke's cheek. Close enough to smell cedar and coffee and whatever shampoo Duke used that made Norman dizzy. "Then why does it feel like one?"
Duke laughed once—short, bitter, wrecked. "Because you're nineteen and you think the world bends for feelings. It doesn't."
Norman tilted his head. "Then why are you still standing here instead of walking away?"
Duke's hands flexed at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach out. "Because walking away is getting harder every damn day."
The air between them crackled.
Norman's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then don't."
Duke closed his eyes. Hard. Like the words physically hurt. When he opened them again they were dark. Hungry. Terrified.
"You have no idea what you're asking."
Norman took the last step.
They were chest to chest now.
Breath mingling.
"I think I do."
Duke's hand lifted—slow, hesitant—then cupped the side of Norman's face. Thumb brushing the cheekbone. Fingers sliding into his hair.
Norman's eyes fluttered shut.
Duke's voice was raw. "You're going to destroy me."
Norman smiled against the palm on his face. "Then let me."
Duke's thumb traced Norman's bottom lip.
Once.
Twice.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Then Duke leaned in.
Forehead to forehead again.
Breath hot against Norman's mouth.
"I can't keep doing this," Duke whispered. "I can't keep almost."
Norman's hands fisted in Duke's shirt. "Then don't almost."
Duke made a low, broken sound.
His lips brushed Norman's—just the barest ghost of a touch.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
But close enough to taste promise.
Then he pulled back.
Just an inch.
Eyes blazing.
"We leave. Separately. Now."
Norman's heart was screaming no.
But he nodded anyway.
Because he could see it—the war in Duke's eyes, the fear, the want, the barely-there thread of control that was fraying fast.
They stepped apart.
Duke grabbed his papers and thermos.
Norman grabbed his backpack.
They walked down the spiral stairs in silence.
At the bottom, Duke paused.
Looked back at Norman in the dim emergency light.
His voice was wrecked. "Tomorrow. My office. After hours."
Norman's pulse roared. "Yeah?"
Duke's gaze dropped to Norman's mouth.
Then back up.
"Bring the anthology."
Norman grinned—small, reckless, victorious.
"Only if you promise not to almost again."
Duke's laugh was low. Helpless.
"Get out of here before I break every rule in the book."
Norman backed toward the exit.
Never breaking eye contact.
"See you tomorrow, Professor."
He slipped through the doors into the night.
Rain hit his face.
He laughed—quiet, giddy, terrified.
Because tomorrow wasn't almost.
Tomorrow was something else entirely.
And both of them knew it.