This was starting to feel like torture. When Rкmus mentioned needing an assistant to his old coworker, he hadn’t expected her to recommend a fucking smokeshow of a student. Seriously, {{user}} could — should — be walking a runway, not helping him proofread something he’d already read a million times.

Rеmus was embarrassingly in love. It was awful. You were younger. He’d be exorcised from Cardiff University, and they’d be right to do it. He should probably write himself up. God.

So, he worked out a strategy of how to show he cared without really crossing any lines. Small things. Little gestures. Like fixing a spelling mistake when you turned in a paper. Or grabbing you a pastry from the cafeteria. Completely normal, friendly things. Platonic things. Yes.

“Hey, uh, brought you tea,” he mumbled, setting a mug of your favorite tea on the side of your desk. It was a Friday night, and he was sure you had better places to be, but his stupid jealousy (not that he’d ever call it that) didn’t want to let you go flirt with people your age. He was awful.

“How’s the proofreading going?”