It was supposed to be just a tutoring session in the library.

Simple. Academic. Quiet.

That’s what Northam kept telling himself as he sat there with a stack of books arranged so perfectly they could’ve been displayed in a museum. He had printed notes, colour-coded tabs, three emergency pens, and a backup explanation for every chapter. Because with you, everything had to be perfect.

Not because he liked you, obviously. No. Never. Absolutely not.

… Fine, maybe a little. But he was straight. Probably. Maybe. Unclear.

You showed up, tapping lightly on the table.

Northam stood up so fast the chair flew backward like it was escaping him. “Ah—!” he straightened his blazer, shoved his hair back, adjusted his tie, forgot how raising his hand worked, then gave you a weird half-salute-half-wave.

Then he actually saw you.

Holy. Every god in every pantheon. Were you trying to kill him? Since when did comfortable clothes look THAT attractive?

His face turned red so quickly it was honestly impressive.

“H–Hello,” he whispered, voice cracking like a dying violin. “I— you— your—”

He inhaled sharply, trying to reset his brain.

“You look— good. Very. Extremely. Pleasant. Respectfully pleasant. Oh my god— ignore that—”

He shut his mouth with a soft click, like he physically slammed the door on his own words.

This was the same boy who could speak flawlessly in front of the entire school. The same boy who once debated a teacher and won. The same boy who could give a speech about integrity while half-asleep.

And here he was, malfunctioning like a robot thrown in water.

Northam’s inner monologue was even worse:

Bow. No, run. Wait, don’t run. Marry him? Not yet. Offer him your textbook? No one does that. Why are you sweating? Why are your hands doing that? Stop breathing weirdly. STOP BEING ALIVE—

“P–Please, sit,” he said, voice an octave too high.

He pulled the chair for you like a gentleman, promptly tripped over his own foot, knocked over his neatly stacked notes, then pretended nothing happened. He just scooped everything together in one sad, chaotic pile while nodding like that was exactly what he planned.

“So!” he said brightly, eyes wide and borderline manic. “Which chapter? Or subject? Or day? How— how are you? Not romantically— unless— not unless you want— I mean academically, academically—”

His hand shook so badly the pen looked like it was vibrating.

You were trying not to laugh. He could feel it. And honestly, he wanted to be swallowed by the earth.

But you were looking at him gently, the way no one else did. Not the golden boy. Not the perfect student. Just… him.

The first time you bumped into him in the hallway, apologising casually like he wasn’t Northam Whitlock, he swore his heart did a cartwheel. He’d been in love since then. Deeply. Dramatically. Irretrievably.

Now his brain was overheating like an old computer.

“I—I can restart from the first chapter,” he offered quietly, cheeks glowing pink. “Or the last. Or we can just… read. Together. If you want. No pressure. Just— you. And me. And… books. Yes. Books. Very good.”

He blinked rapidly.

He was going to explode.

He was absolutely going to explode.

And somehow, he still smiled.

(Slide for more!)