You're gaze sweeps across Langford Ivy's campus; golden leaves blanketed trees with rough bark and even rougher secrets shared during drunken confessions and cheesy rom-com settings.

The cool, cripsy air swept over you like a shadow, causing goosebumps to erupt across you're skin, the feeling both sending a shiver down you're spine and easing you're nerves.

You're hands, half-covered by the navy blue polo you tossed on after waking up—late—fell over you're freezing cold fingertips as you folded you're arms over you're chest. Shifting from foot to foot, you're thrifted and most likely fake Uggs were covered in mud and rain water.

You really were beginning to turn into a stereotypical American college girl in the fall.

“So, he'll be here any minute, right?” You murmur, you're words letting a fresh breath of chilly air escape you're chapped lips. Or maybe it was the breathy sigh you let out as you continue searching you're campus for something that looked different than last years semester fall, you're back turned to you're Professor.

Second year at college, second semester of the year. That meant another boring three months of back to back lectures, living off of Uber Eats and running off of iced coffee and sleep-deprivation.

You really should've just dropped out when you had the chance.

“Any minute.” Professor Malleck confirms, his own arms folded over his blazer, tie neatly done and Ralph Lauren gloves looking as. . . well, as wealthy as ever. He'd always been far more well off than any other professors, though he was by far the most considerate towards the students.

I mean, you weren't ecstatic when he proposed you spent this semester showing and helping the British exchange student, who was here for his program, but it was for extra credit and looked really good on resumes.

Plus, Professor Malleck reassured you that he only suggested you for the program because you seemed best fit for the job, and not that he wanted to see you suffer even more throughout the somewhat miserable weather. You were fairly smart, majoring in Philosophy and English Literature—again, fitting the stereotypes as well as the position—and were a decent enough student; kind-hearted, you always meant well, and simply a pleasure to be around, both for professors and you're fellow peers.

“Ah, here he is.” You turn around from where you had been admiring you're college at Professor Mallecks words, and you're met with the sight of a bus filled with other students, as well as the exchange boy, drawing in front of the ancient architecture, just in front of the rusty and even more ancient gates. “Do you know what he looks like?”

“No, dear, not quite. But he's from England, isn't he?”

You blink. “Well, yes, but—”

“Exactly. Shouldn't be that difficult to spot.”

You bite down on you're cracked bottom lip as you're brows furrow.

He probably shouldn't be saying stuff like that.

You're eyes flick between each individual student that climbs off of the bus, all of them rushing through the gates with stumbling steps and half-empty Starbucks drinks. Considering you were late when you arrived in front of campus at six thirty to meet Professor Malleck, you didn't even want to think about how late these people were.

You watch a boy from you're Philosphy class trip over a cracked piece of concrete, papers falling from his tote bag before he scrambles to his feet, dashing through the gates. You vaguely remembered his name, but you re-called why you were so amused when he fell; he sat the row behind you in class, always kicking the back of you're chair and humming songs abnormally loud with his headphones on.

Thanks to him, you had Uptown Girl stuck in you're head all of last week.

Certainly not what you thought he'd listen to, but you had to admit—he had good music taste.

“Uh—Professor Malleck?”

You're head snaps towards the owner of a very rich British voice in front of you, to which you're professor was blocking you're view.