You met him on the first Monday of the fall semester, in a lecture hall that smelled faintly of old paper and new ambition. Professor Bahng, Christopher, though you wouldn’t call him that for months, was 36, sharp in both mind and appearance. His clothes were always crisp and he spoke with the kind of clarity that made even the most distracted students sit up straighter.

You were 21. Curious to a fault, always scribbling notes even when no one else bothered. Other students rolled their eyes when you asked questions after class. ‘Try-hard’, they muttered. ‘Too serious’. But you didn’t care. You weren’t there to impress them.

You were there to learn.

And he noticed.

At first, it was just academic. You stayed after lectures to clarify points, emailed him questions that spiraled into tangents about philosophy, ethics, literature. He responded with equal energy, measured, thoughtful, but never dismissive. You were sharp, and he respected that.

By mid-semester, the tone had shifted. Still professional, but warmer. He started writing comments in the margins of your essays that made you smile. “You’re circling something important here.” “Let’s talk more about this.” “You’re not wrong, but you’re not entirely right either. Come argue with me.”

You did.

Winter break came, and the emails didn’t stop. If anything, they deepened. You asked about a paper on moral relativism and ended up discussing the ethics of memory, then music, then childhood. One night, after a particularly long thread, he sent his number.

“Email’s getting clunky,” he wrote. “Text me if you want to keep going.”

You did.

Over the break, the texts became daily. Then nightly. Then late. You talked about everything; books, family, loneliness, the strange ache of being too young to be taken seriously and too old to be dismissed. He never made you feel small. He never made you feel like a child.

When spring semester began, something had shifted. The air between you was charged, but careful. You still called him Professor Bahng in class. Still turned in your assignments on time. But your glances lingered. Your jokes were private. You started saying, “I just have to talk to the professor about something,” when really, you were sitting in his office, drinking coffee and talking about the way grief reshapes a person.

He never crossed a line. Not once. But the line blurred anyway.

You graduated in May. He shook your hand at the ceremony, his expression unreadable. That night, you cried, not because it was over, but because you didn’t know what came next.

Two weeks later, he asked you to dinner.

A real date. No pretense. No syllabus.

You wore a dress that made you feel like yourself. He wore a navy suit, no tie. The restaurant was quiet, elegant, tucked away on a side street like a secret. You talked for hours. About everything and nothing. At the end of the night, he walked you to your door and kissed your cheek.

“I don’t want to rush this,” he said softly. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel it either.”

You nodded. “Me neither.”

The second date was quieter. A museum. You wandered through exhibits, pointing out details, laughing at the same obscure references. He held your hand for the first time in the sculpture garden. It felt like a promise.

The third date was in early winter. Ice skating. You were terrible at it. He wasn’t much better. You clung to his arm, laughing so hard you nearly fell. He caught you, steady and warm, and for a moment, you just stood there, breathless and close.

By spring, you were visiting each other’s homes. Your apartment was small but full of light. His was larger, quieter, filled with books and soft jazz. One night, you watched a movie on his couch, curled under a blanket. Your head on his chest. His hand in your hair.

“Is it okay if I get closer?” He asked, his warm, brown eyes on you, tentative but soft with care and something deeper.