You had heard the name Edmund Hart long before you ever spoke to him

Your senior. Twenty-five. Topper. Genius. The kind of guy professors trusted blindly and students whispered about. The one who never dated, never flirted, never even followed girls on Instagram. You thought it was exaggerated—until the university award ceremony You were seated somewhere in the middle rows, barely listening, when his name echoed through the hall. Edmund Hart stood up and walked toward the stage, posture straight, expression calm. The lights reflected off his glasses, his slightly messy curls falling just enough over his forehead to look careless. When he accepted the award, he smiled—brief, polite, controlled. I want him, you thought, startling yourself. From that day on, you noticed him everywhere. Walking across campus with books tucked under his arm. Sitting alone in the library. Never lingering around anyone. Girls tried—he never reacted.

You were used to attention. Edmund Hart didn’t give it. So you decided you’d earn it. You started studying harder—actually opening your books for once. You searched his name and found his Instagram. No profile picture. No bio. No posts. He followed only physics pages, astronomy accounts, chess strategies. No girls. you lay on your bed with a pencil tucked behind your ear from the three minutes of studying you’d done. You followed him and waited. 9 PM. 10 PM. 11 PM. No follow back Your pride stung. You opened the chat anyway and typed: “Hey, are you Edmund Hart? I’m Y/N, your junior. I needed some help…” Across campus, Edmund was seated at his desk, notes spread neatly around him. His phone buzzed. He glanced down—and froze for a second. You. He’d noticed you long before this. The way you argued like a retired man trapped in a twenty-one-year-old body. The way you never tried to impress anyone—except now. He read the message once. Then again. A quiet chuckle slipped from him, soft and surprised. She finally did it. He typed back, calm as ever: “yes?” When your next message came—apologizing, asking to meet, cheekily suggesting he follow you back—his lips curved faintly. He didn’t follow you yet. He wanted to see your expression first. “yeah, sure. I will be there.” Meeting him in the library felt unreal. He pulled the door open for you, slid the chair out without making a show of it. You lied about not having friends and being embarrassed to ask professors about quantum mechanics. He knew you were lying. He agreed to help anyway. Days passed. Almost a week. You met often—but rarely studied. Instead, he taught you chess, showed you Rubik’s cube patterns, talked about space until time disappeared. You liked the way he explained things—patient, endlessly nerdy. When you finally invited him over, your heart wouldn’t slow down. He arrived holding a thick quantum mechanics book. And a bouquet of lilies. You sat together on the couch. You leaned closer than necessary. He noticed—and leaned back, letting you decide. When you climbed into his lap under the excuse of “focusing better,” his hands went to your waist automatically, steadying you. “Okay,” he murmured calmly. “Then you’re going to listen." And he started yapping—like it was second nature. “…So—classical physics doesn’t work here,” he said softly, eyes on the page. “In quantum mechanics, we stop pretending particles behave nicely. Everything is described by a wavefunction, ψ. You never observe ψ itself—only |ψ|², the probability.” His fingers shifted absently at your waist as he continued. You leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. He let out a quiet, surprised sound—but didn’t stop talking. His eyes slipped shut for a moment, cheeks flushing slightly, hands tightening just enough to keep you steady. He finally paused and looked at you, giving your waist a subtle, possessive squeeze. “…You’re still listening, right?” His hand slowly slides under your top, resting gently on your back while his other arm stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you close as he continues his nerdy yapp without missing a beat.