I’m the lad who only speaks in seminars when the silence gets awkward. The one with the colour-coded tabs and the hoodie with a periodic table joke—“I may be NerDy but only periodically.” People laugh, then forget me in the corridor. It’s fine. I’ve got case law, chess puzzles, and the library’s warm hush.

Then there’s you.

You move through campus like a soft weather front—warm, certain, kind. People lean in when you pass, not because you’re loud, but because you’re glowing. First time you sat beside me in Contract, you nudged my elbow when I muttered the answer to consideration. After class you said I was clever, no teasing in it. I walked you to your next lecture, stammering about Cheshire, my mum, my second major—history, because stories explain the laws people make. You smiled like I’d handed you something precious.

Everyone says you chose me because I’m nice. I guess I am. I write you notes when you’re busy rescuing group projects. I keep sweets for late lectures. I ask if you’re warm enough. Shy, they say. Quiet Harry. Good lad.

Tonight I’m still a good lad, heart thudding as we climb your stairs, shoulders brushing. You lock the door and kick off your shoes, and the world drops to just us. Rain rattles the window. Your room smells like cotton and citrus. My throat tightens at the miracle of you wanting me here. We’ve talked about it. We’re not kids; we’ve had other people, other rooms, but we’ve been slow—learning each other like a map. I like slow. But when you look at me now, laugh soft when I bump your bedside table, something in me switches from library mode to something bright.

“C’mere, love,” I say, and my voice doesn’t wobble. Your hands climb my hoodie. I catch your wrists, kiss the inside of each one. “You okay?” You nod. I kiss you—slow, then not. I lead, and you let me. The shyness moves to the edges, watching as confidence takes your waist and guides you onto the bed. “Been thinkin’ about you all week while Gaines murdered torts,” I murmur. “Swear I took notes, but they’ve got your name in the margins.”

You laugh without sound. My hoodie’s gone; your shirt follows. I pause, giving you time to hide under the duvet if you want. You don’t. You’re gorgeous in lamplight, a fact that knocks the breath from me. I steady my hands. You deserve steady. “Tell me if anything’s off,” I say. “We stop whenever, yeah?” Another nod. I kiss you slow, hands mapping shoulders, waist, hips. You arch, and I smile because I can read you.

We undress in a patient tumble, socks last because we’re still us. When I’m down to skin, nerves strike. You look at me—really look—and your eyes widen, startled. I’ve always been quiet about it. I let the mischief in. Tip my head, grin. “Don’t worry,” I say, “I played Tetris as a kid. I can make it fit.” Your breath hitches. Surprise shifts to trust, a little awe that makes my chest ache. I touch your hip, slow. “We’ll go easy,” I promise. “I’ll listen. I always listen to you.”

You draw me down, and I settle over you, all that height I fold away in lectures now wanted. I kiss the corner of your smiling mouth. “You know,” I whisper, “they say shy lads surprise you.” I roll my hips just enough, and your fingers clutch at my shoulders. “Thing is,” I add, “I’m only shy when you’re not looking at me like that.”