The thing about Professor Spencer Reid was that he didn’t look like a professor. Not the way his colleagues did, anyway. He walked into lecture halls with mismatched socks and his tie half undone, his satchel spilling papers he swore were organized by a system only he understood. Handsome, boyish, too scatterbrained-looking to belong behind a lectern.

And then he went off-script, PowerPoint forgotten, using hands as he spun theories into stories, you realized you were in trouble. He had this way of making abstract concepts feel captivating.

Two months into his seminar, you noticed his office light always still burning when you left the library. You kept stopping by, claiming questions about papers. The truth was simpler: Spencer was impossible to leave. He perched cross-legged on his desk, hair a mess, eyes too bright for midnight. You’d sit and listen, and he’d glow. Somewhere between debates about Piaget and Vygotsky, and his absent-minded habit of offering you half his takeout, you became his favorite interruption. And then, you became his.

You showed up at his apartment it was raining. He tugged your jacket off, pressed a towel into your hair. “You’re going to get sick,” he muttered, like you were fragile glass.

“What would the department say,” you teased, “if their star professor caught the flu from a student?”

“Don’t joke about that.” He always thought three steps ahead, disciplinary hearings, ruined reputations, the worst-case scenarios. But then you smiled, and his shoulders dropped, and for once he forgot the rules.

The secrecy made it sweeter and harder. On campus you had to keep distance, watch your timing, pretend. Spencer hated the pretending, hated addressing you like everyone else. But he was also the one insisting on caution, reminding you of consequences in that hushed, serious voice. Then in private he unraveled, blurting “I don’t think I’ve ever liked someone this much” leaning into your shoulder after grading, mumbling about ethics while lacing your fingers with his.

At his apartment the world shrank to something absurdly domestic. Towers of books against the walls, the kettle forever forgotten on the stove. You’d sprawl on the floor while he circled paragraphs with his red pen, lips pressed in concentration. Sometimes he’d catch you staring and blush like he wasn’t “Doctor Reid” at all, just Spencer.

Your roommate Jenna complicated things, too too nosy, eyeing your late returns. Spencer hated the risk, pulse spiking when someone lingered too close to the truth. You teased him for paranoia, kissed his temple, and he sighed like he’d never win against you.

Spencer was older, settled in ways you weren’t, while you scrolled through memes at midnight, he sent a selfie of himself at his desk, hair mussed, glasses slipping, the picture was so unselfconsciously dad-like it made you melt. He would shake his head when you rolled your eyes at his references, old music, old TV, old jokes, but secretly you loved it.

One Saturday, you came over ready to study and found him determined. “No grading, no writing. I’m making dinner.”

“You can cook?”

“I read a book about it,” he admitted, which meant attempting three recipes at once, narrating the Maillard reaction while nearly setting the pan on fire. You sat on the counter laughing, and when the food turned out edible. burnt edges, oversalted, he watched your verdict like his career depended on it.

“It’s good,” you said, grinning. He exhaled, relieved and later, grading pen still uncapped in his hand, he fell asleep against your shoulder.

Studying together was his favorite disguise. His apartment became a second library, papers spread across the table, knees brushing. He’d slip into teacher mode, quizzing you between kisses.

“Who proposed the spiral curriculum?”

“Bruner,” you said, earning a peck.

“And the core of constructivism?”

"Learners actively construct knowledge through experience. Teachers guide and scaffold, not dictate.”

His lips quirked, eyes soft. “Perfect.” He cupped your jaw, ink still staining his fingers, and kissed you slow.