Norman arrived at Duke's office at exactly 6:58 p.m., two minutes early because showing up late felt like admitting defeat and he was not about to lose this war before it even started. He carried two steaming paper cups of black coffee, the good stuff from the campus café that cost too much but tasted like victory. His hoodie was zipped all the way up, hood down for once, hair still damp from the quick shower he'd taken after realizing he'd spent the entire afternoon daydreaming instead of actually planning the workshop. He looked like a nervous puppy who'd learned how to dress up as a human, which was honestly accurate.
He knocked twice, light and polite, heart doing that ridiculous tap-dance routine against his ribs. The door opened almost immediately. Duke stood there in a charcoal sweater that hugged his shoulders like it was personally offended by distance, sleeves rolled up, collar open just enough to show a sliver of skin that Norman had to physically force himself not to stare at. His eyes were tired but sharp, the kind of tired that came from fighting yourself for hours.
"You're early," Duke said, stepping aside to let him in.
Norman slipped past, close enough that their arms brushed, and he felt the spark like static electricity on steroids. "Didn't want to keep you waiting."
Duke closed the door with a soft click that sounded suspiciously final. He took one of the coffees without asking, their fingers touching for half a second longer than necessary. "Thank you."
They stood there for a beat, the room suddenly feeling too small for two people who wanted each other this badly. The desk lamp cast warm gold across Duke's face, highlighting the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth that Norman had started cataloguing like it was his new favorite constellation.
Duke moved first, walking around to sit behind the desk like he needed the barrier between them. Smart move. Cowardly move. Norman hated how much he respected it.
Norman dropped into the chair opposite, setting his coffee down and pulling out the anthology with exaggerated care. "So. Workshop. Poetry. Fractured voices. We should probably start with that."
Duke leaned back, elbows on the armrests, fingers interlaced across his stomach. The pose should have been casual. It wasn't. It was predatory in the quietest way possible. "You're nervous."
Norman laughed, short and breathy. "You think?"
Duke's mouth curved, just the tiniest fraction. "Your hands are shaking. Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing is shallow. Textbook signs."
Norman looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He clenched them into fists. "You notice a lot."
"I notice everything about you," Duke said, voice low and rough, like he hadn't meant to admit it out loud.
The words landed like a punch wrapped in velvet. Norman's breath caught. He looked up, met those gray eyes, and saw the storm brewing behind them—want, fear, frustration, all churning together in a way that made Norman's stomach flip.
Duke cleared his throat. "The workshop. Let's focus."
Norman nodded, even though focusing felt impossible when Duke was sitting there looking like sin in a sweater. They opened the books. Talked about poems. Picked lines. Made notes. It should have been professional. It felt like foreplay.
Every time their eyes met over the pages, the air got thicker. Every time Duke leaned forward to point at a line, his forearm brushed the desk between them, close enough that Norman could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Every time Norman spoke, Duke listened like the words were gospel, head tilted, eyes locked, making Norman feel seen in a way that was terrifying and addictive.
Halfway through, Norman reached for the same page Duke was turning. Their fingers brushed. Neither pulled away.
The touch lingered.
Duke's voice came out rough. "Norman."
Norman swallowed. "Yeah?"
Duke's thumb slid over Norman's knuckle, slow and deliberate. "We're supposed to be working."
Norman's heart was trying to escape through his throat. "We are."
Duke's eyes darkened. "This isn't working."
Norman grinned, small and reckless. "Feels like it is."
Duke exhaled hard, like the air had been punched out of him. He didn't let go of Norman's hand. Instead he turned it over, palm up, and traced the lifeline with his thumb. The touch was light. Reverent. Devastating.
"You're dangerous," Duke murmured.
Norman's voice cracked. "You're the one touching me."
Duke's gaze snapped up, fierce and hungry. "I know."
The room was suddenly too hot, too quiet, too full of everything they weren't saying. Duke's thumb kept moving, slow circles on Norman's palm, like he was mapping every inch of skin he was allowed to touch.
Norman's breathing turned shallow. "We should… keep planning."
Duke's mouth twitched. "We should."
Neither moved.
Then Duke leaned forward, just enough that their faces were inches apart across the desk. "Tell me to stop."
Norman's eyes fluttered half-shut. "Don't you dare."
Duke made a low sound, almost a growl. His free hand lifted, cupped the side of Norman's face, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. Norman's eyes closed completely. He leaned into the touch like it was oxygen.
Duke's voice was wrecked. "You have no idea what you do to me."
Norman opened his eyes, met Duke's gaze head-on. "Show me."
Duke's thumb pressed harder against Norman's bottom lip. Just enough to part it slightly.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Then Duke leaned in.
Closer.
Closer.
Until their breaths mingled.
Until their lips were a heartbeat apart.
And Duke whispered against Norman's mouth, voice raw and trembling,
"I'm going to kiss you now."
Norman smiled against the promise. "Finally."
Duke closed the distance.
Soft.
Slow.
Devastating.
The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, like Duke was afraid Norman might break. Then Norman made a small, needy sound in the back of his throat, and Duke snapped.
The kiss turned hungry.
Desperate.
Possessive.
Duke's hand slid into Norman's hair, tilting his head just right, deepening the kiss until Norman was making little whimpering sounds he couldn't control. Duke tasted like coffee and rain and years of holding back. Norman kissed like he was drowning and Duke was air.
They broke apart gasping.
Foreheads pressed together.
Breathing ragged.
Duke's voice was hoarse. "We just crossed the line."
Norman grinned, dazed and happy and a little wrecked. "Good."
Duke laughed, low and helpless, pressing a soft kiss to Norman's forehead. "You're going to be the death of me."
Norman's arms wrapped around Duke's neck. "Promise?"
Duke pulled him closer, burying his face in Norman's hair. "I'm already gone."
They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other across the desk, hearts pounding in perfect sync.
The workshop planning was forgotten.
The rules were broken.
And neither of them cared.
Because the almost was finally over.
And what came next felt like everything.