Norman walked into the literature club meeting room like a man on a mission, backpack slung low, hoodie zipped halfway, hair still a little wild from the wind outside. The place was already buzzing with the usual suspects: Maya at the head of the table waving a clipboard like a battle flag, a couple of seniors arguing over font choices for the event posters, and a scattering of freshmen trying to look like they belonged. The air smelled like fresh coffee and old books, the perfect mix to make your brain feel both awake and nostalgic. Norman dropped into a chair near the window, legs bouncing under the table, because sitting still was impossible when he knew Duke was coming.
He pulled out his notebook and started doodling hearts with little daggers through them, because symbolism, right? His pulse was doing that annoying drum solo again, the one that started every time he thought about last night's library almost-kiss. Foreheads touching. Breath hot. Duke's thumb tracing his lip like he was memorizing it. Norman had replayed it so many times his brain should have worn a groove in the memory. He was half convinced he could still feel the ghost of that touch if he pressed his fingers to his mouth hard enough.
The door swung open at exactly four o'clock and Duke stepped in like he owned the oxygen in the room. Navy sweater today, sleeves pushed up, dark jeans that hugged his thighs in ways that should be illegal for a professor. His hair looked like he'd run his hands through it a hundred times already, and his eyes were that perfect stormy gray that made Norman's stomach flip like it was auditioning for the circus. Duke scanned the room once, professional smile in place, then his gaze snagged on Norman and everything sharpened. Just for a second. Just long enough for Norman to feel it in his toes.
"Good afternoon," Duke said, voice low and smooth, the kind that could read tax law and still sound sexy. He set his satchel down and leaned against the table edge, arms crossed, looking way too good for a Tuesday. "Maya tells me we're finalizing the open mic lineup today. Let's make it quick and brutal. I have papers to grade and souls to scar."
Maya laughed and launched into the agenda while Norman tried not to stare. Tried and failed spectacularly. Every time Duke spoke, every time he gestured with those long fingers or tilted his head to listen, Norman's brain short-circuited. He caught himself smiling like an idiot more than once and had to duck his head, pretending to take notes. The notes were actually just variations of "don't kiss him in front of everyone" written in increasingly desperate handwriting.
Then Maya clapped her hands. "Okay, group project time! We need three people to coordinate the poetry workshop next week. Volunteers?"
Silence. Crickets. The usual.
Maya's eyes landed on Norman. "You. You're enthusiastic. You're in."
Norman blinked. "Me?"
"Yes you, blue-eyes. And..." She scanned the room, grin turning wicked. "Professor Brandon, since you're already here and terrifyingly competent, you're co-leading with him. Perfect. Done."
The room made various sounds of amusement and fake gasps. Duke's eyebrows shot up, but his expression stayed cool. Too cool. Norman felt his face catch fire. Co-leading. With Duke. In a small room. Alone. Possibly.
Duke cleared his throat. "I assume that's not optional."
Maya winked. "Not even a little."
The meeting wrapped up fast after that, people scattering like they'd just been given homework on a Friday. Norman stayed put, pretending to organize his already-organized backpack, until the room was empty except for him and Duke.
Duke walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, that dangerous half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like we're stuck together, Mr. Reed."
Norman looked up, heart doing somersaults. "Looks like it, Professor."
Duke leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of Norman's chair, close enough that Norman could smell cedar and rain and the faint trace of whatever cologne Duke wore that should come with a health warning. "You planned this, didn't you?"
Norman grinned, slow and shameless. "Would I do something so sneaky?"
"Yes." Duke's voice dropped. "And I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
Norman's breath hitched. Duke's eyes were dark, pupils blown, staring at Norman's mouth like he was remembering exactly how close they'd come last night. The room felt suddenly smaller, hotter, like the air itself was holding its breath.
"We should probably plan the workshop," Norman whispered, even though his brain was screaming kiss him kiss him kiss him.
Duke's thumb brushed the back of Norman's chair, inches from his shoulder. "We should."
Neither of them moved.
The silence stretched, thick with everything they weren't saying.
Then Duke straightened, breaking the spell with visible effort. "My office. Tomorrow. Seven p.m. Bring coffee. And don't be late."
Norman stood up slowly, close enough that their chests almost brushed. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Duke's gaze dropped to Norman's lips again, lingering. "Careful, Norman. I'm running out of almosts."
Norman smiled, small and reckless. "Good."
He backed toward the door, never breaking eye contact, heart pounding so loud he was sure Duke could hear it.
"See you tomorrow, Professor."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Duke stood alone in the golden light, hand still gripping the chair Norman had just vacated.
He exhaled hard, shaky, like he'd been holding his breath for years.
Then he laughed, low and helpless, pressing two fingers to his own lips.
"Tomorrow," he muttered to the empty room, voice wrecked with want. "God help me, tomorrow."
Outside, Norman walked through the rain with a stupid grin on his face, hoodie soaked, heart racing.
Because tomorrow wasn't almost.
Tomorrow was something dangerous and perfect and inevitable.
And both of them were running straight toward it.