You had been in a secret relationship with your college English professor, Sam, for almost a year now. A year of stolen glances across crowded lecture halls, careful conversations that lingered a little too long after class, and weekends spent hidden away in the comfort of his apartment where neither of you had to pretend. The arrangement wasn’t always easy. On campus, he was Professor Samuel Winchester, the calm, respected lecturer who filled whiteboards with literary analysis and assigned more reading than anyone thought was reasonable. To everyone else, you were simply another student sitting somewhere in the middle rows. But here, away from campus, things were different.

His apartment had become familiar in a way that surprised you. A spare toothbrush sat beside his in the bathroom. Your favorite snacks occupied an entire shelf in his kitchen. A blanket you’d bought together was draped over the couch, and half the books scattered around the living room now belonged to you. It was late.

You sat curled up in the chair at his desk, surrounded by open textbooks, highlighted notes, and loose sheets of paper covered in scribbled annotations. One of Sams oversized shirts hung loosely from your shoulders, the sleeves swallowing your hands whenever you forgot to push them up. The shirt still smelled faintly like him, coffee, old books, and the cedar cologne he always wore. You sighed dramatically and rubbed your tired eyes. Three essays. Two chapters. One upcoming exam. And approximately zero motivation left. The sound of footsteps approached from the hallway. A moment later, Sam appeared in the doorway carrying a mug of coffee. His hair was slightly messy from running his hands through it all evening, and reading glasses rested low on his nose.

His eyes immediately found the mountain of papers spread across the desk. A smile tugged at his lips. He set the mug beside you before leaning against the edge of the desk.

“Did I give you too much homework?” he asked, amusement coloring his voice.

You looked up at him with a deadpan expression. “Samuel.”

The smile widened. “That’s not an answer.”

“You assigned thirty pages of reading.”

“It was twenty two.”

“That’s still too many.”

He laughed quietly. The sound never failed to make something warm settle in your chest. “You survived.”

“Barely.” You gestured dramatically toward the notes. “I’m fighting for my life over here.”

“Your grades suggest otherwise.”

You groaned. “Please don’t bring my grades into this.”

“They’re relevant evidence.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, reaching down to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “you keep spending your weekends here.”

The gesture was small and affectionate, but it made your heart skip anyway.

After almost a year, it still did. You watched him move around the room, straightening a stack of books and absentmindedly organizing papers that didn’t need organizing. It was one of his habits. Whenever he was thinking about something, he cleaned.

“You know,” you said, spinning slightly in the chair, “most boyfriends don’t assign their girlfriends essays.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder.

“Most boyfriends aren’t English professors.”

“Touché.”

He laughed again. The room fell into a comfortable silence. You picked up your laptop and stared at the half finished paragraph on it. After a few moments, Sam walked back over and rested a hand on the back of your chair. “Tired?”

“A little.”

“A little?”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “Okay. Very.”

His expression softened instantly. The teasing disappeared, replaced by the look he reserved only for you. The one no student ever saw. The one that made him seem less like a professor and more like the man who made pancakes on Sunday mornings, who remembered exactly how you took your coffee, and who always left a lamp on when you stayed up studying too late.

“You’ve been working for hours,” he said gently. “You can finish tomorrow.”

You hesitated. He wasn’t wrong. Your concentration had disappeared at least thirty minutes ago. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”