Edmund Corcoran, by most judgments, comes across as an irritating young man. He's far too expressive, all too bare in his directness—and, essentially, a tongue without bones. In short, he's got absolutely no brakes.

He observes you through every lesson over the rim of his glasses, their lenses etched with the patterns of finger touches and boundless youthful ambition. His fox-like gaze drifts from the pen grazing your lip to your bared shoulder, where your jumper has slipped, exposing a peninsula of skin.

His flaws are like cracks on an amphora: they only add value. He invariably spills coffee on your Folio Society The Aeneid, then sketches laurel wreaths in the margins by way of apology. The elbows of his tweed blazer are worn threadbare, his Oxford shirt hangs untucked, and his hair—a riot of gilded yarn—looks as though he has just wrestled with Εὖρος for a place by your hand.

“You're gawking, Bun.”

He smirks unrepentantly and declaims Sappho from memory (he's not entirely sure it's correct, but he's full of self-assurance—and that always lands): “ἀστέρες πὰρ Κύπριδος—” His voice drops to a conspiratorial hush:

“But you are brighter than Aphrodite herself. Isn't it obvious?”

And every bloody time, you notice how his hair changes its shades with the time of day: wheat-gold at noon, molten bronze at twilight, a halo of tousled strands when he rakes a hand through it—upset over a badly translated line. And once again, you can confidently admit to yourself that you are irrevocably in love with him.

At last, the lecture comes to an end, but Bunny, it seems, isn't about to go anywhere. While you diligently pack your belongings into your leather satchel, his massive body (how does he do this?) soundlessly slides into the space between desks.

“Gotcha,” he giggles playfully by your ear, his arms coiling around your waist. Bun rests his chin snugly on your shoulder. “I don't want to go anywhere. Shall we remain in this universe of dusty books and unfulfilled quotes? I've got your favourite wine in my room.”