Duke didn't go straight home after the library. He walked the long way around campus instead, rain soaking through his sweater, cold seeping into his bones like punishment. The streets were empty, lamplight bouncing off wet cobblestones in golden smears, and every step echoed the same stupid refrain in his head: You almost kissed him. Again. You idiot.
He stopped under the awning of the old chapel, the one nobody used except for weddings that never happened and professors who needed to hide from their own bad decisions. Water dripped off the edge in steady plinks. He leaned against the stone wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, letting the rain hit his face.
He could still feel Norman's hair between his fingers.
Still taste the ghost of that almost-kiss on his lips.
Still hear the kid's soft, reckless "Then don't almost."
Duke laughed once, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the storm.
He was thirty-two.
A widower.
A professor.
A man who had spent four years convincing himself love was a luxury he couldn't afford.
And yet here he was, soaked to the skin, heart racing because a nineteen-year-old had looked at him like he was the only thing worth risking everything for.
He dragged a hand down his face, water streaming between his fingers.
He thought about the house waiting for him.
The guest room bed that never felt warm.
The photographs he still couldn't bring himself to turn right-side up.
He thought about the silver keychain in his pocket, the one shaped like a wedding band, heavy with memories he couldn't bury deep enough.
He pulled it out.
The metal was cold, slick with rain.
He turned it over in his palm, thumb tracing the worn engraving that used to read their initials.
Used to.
Now it was just a smooth, faded circle.
A promise that had ended.
Duke pressed it to his lips, hard, like the pressure could force the past back into place.
It didn't.
Instead he saw Norman's face—wide blue eyes, flushed cheeks, that tiny defiant smile that said I'm not afraid of you, even when you're terrified of me.
Duke's chest ached so bad he almost doubled over.
He whispered into the rain, voice rough and raw, "I'm sorry."
He didn't know who he was apologizing to.
His husband.
Norman.
Himself.
Maybe all three.
He shoved the keychain back into his pocket and started walking again.
The rain picked up, harder now, drumming against his shoulders like it wanted to wash him clean.
It couldn't.
Nothing could.
Because the truth was clawing its way up his throat and he couldn't swallow it down anymore.
He wanted Norman.
Wanted him in a way that scared him senseless.
Wanted the kid's laughter in his quiet house.
Wanted those ink-stained fingers tangled in his hair.
Wanted those soft lips under his, finally, no more almost.
Wanted to wake up and not feel like half a person.
Duke reached his street.
The house loomed ahead, dark windows staring like empty eyes.
He paused on the porch, key in hand, rain dripping off his hair.
He looked back at the path he'd walked.
Somewhere out there, in a dorm room that probably smelled like instant ramen and teenage hope, Norman was lying awake.
Probably replaying tonight on loop.
Probably smiling like an idiot.
Probably terrified.
Duke's hand shook as he slid the key into the lock.
The door opened.
The silence inside hit like always.
But tonight it felt different.
Tonight it felt like a choice.
He stepped inside.
Closed the door.
Leaned back against it.
And whispered to the empty hallway, voice cracking on every word,
"I can't keep pretending I don't love him."
The house didn't answer.
But the ache in Duke's chest answered for it.
Loud.
Clear.
Unstoppable.
Across campus, Norman lay on his narrow bed, hoodie still damp, staring at the ceiling cracks that looked like lightning bolts tonight.
Caleb was out again—some party, some girl, some life that wasn't this slow-burning torture.
Norman rolled onto his side.
Pressed his face into the pillow.
Smelled rain and library dust and the faint trace of cedar that had clung to his clothes when Duke touched him.
He closed his eyes.
Pictured Duke's hand on his cheek.
Pictured the almost-kiss.
Pictured the war in those gray eyes.
And smiled—small, shaky, reckless.
Because he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Duke wasn't running anymore.
He was circling.
Closer.
Closer.
And when he finally landed?
Norman was ready.
He whispered into the dark, voice muffled by the pillow,
"Come get me, Professor."
The rain kept falling outside.
The night kept stretching.
And somewhere in the space between a silent house and a noisy dorm, two hearts beat in perfect, terrified sync.
Waiting for tomorrow.
Waiting for the moment when almost became everything.