Chapter Text
Whenever Professor Lee pushes the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbows, Jisung thinks he might pass out.
He always has a hard time focusing in this class, because his professor is unreasonably, unbearably, unbelievably attractive, so Jisung keeps losing himself in hazy, inappropriate fantasies with plotlines lifted straight from the most clichéd porn. But, then, is there anything more cliché than crushing on your hot professor?
Even though his voice always shakes, he still raises his hand as often as he can. He wants to make a good impression. He wants, a little shamefully, to be remembered. To be liked. Not by his classmates, but by him.
Professor Lee. Well-spoken and scarily clever and fifteen years older than Jisung, which should make him want him less, not more, but Jisung wants him so badly. He wants to be wanted by him. So he messes with his hair every Wednesday before class and swaps his regular studs out for dangly earrings and dabs mother-of-pearl highlighter on to his cheekbones. He makes himself look as pretty as he can, and it’s stupid, it’s so ridiculously silly, but—but, but—
What if?
He reads all their assigned texts thoroughly and takes extensive notes and hopes to wow him with his own writings, hopes he can wow him into bending him over a table. The hope is flimsy, but sometimes it oscillates into something thick. Palpable. Sometimes the hope is so real he can dig his teeth into it.
It’s not that unheard of, you know. These things do happen.
Why can’t it happen to him?
‘Jisung,’ Professor Lee says after dismissing class, just as Jisung is on his way out of the door. ‘Do you have a moment?’
His head snaps up and he turns around. ‘Huh?’
‘Do you have a class after this?’ he asks. ‘If you’re busy, this can wait.’
‘No, no.’ Jisung shakes his head a little too eagerly. He licks out at his lips and grabs the right strap of his rucksack just to have something to hold as he blinks up at his professor. It feels a little bit prophetic, but that’s just all his wet dreams getting to his head. ‘No, I’m—I have a moment. Or more.’
He smiles at him kindly. The skin around his eyes crinkles. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I read the first draft you submitted.’ He sits down on the edge of the table and straightens out his left sleeve. ‘I really enjoyed it. You have such a strong, clear voice throughout all your work.’
‘O-oh.’ He swallows and ducks his head, as if that’ll hide how badly he’s blushing. ‘You think so?’
‘Of course.’ He catches Jisung’s eyes and lifts his brows a tiny bit. ‘Do you think I’d be dishonest?’
Jisung doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw—his forearms and his chest and he needs to stop. He needs to stop. He needs to take a deep breath and not embarrass himself in front of him. ‘N-no,’ he mumbles. ‘No, of course not. I just—’ He sets his rucksack down on a table and sits down next to his professor, an agonising few inches of space between them. ‘I really wasn’t sure about this story. Second person point of view is something I haven’t really tried before, and it was a little—’ He waves his hand between them. ‘It felt right. It felt right for the story, but it’s unusual, yeah? A little unorthodox. So I wasn’t sure…’
‘It was definitely the right choice,’ he says. His hand brushes over Jisung’s shoulder, briefly, barely there, but it still sets his skin on fire. ‘And what an opening line. It’s been rattling around my brain ever since I read it. You don’t want to hurt the rabbit, but this is not your choice to make.’
His breath catches in his throat. This is distinctly surreal. He blinks rapidly and runs his thumb up the shell of his ear, the touch making his earring dangle. ‘I—Thank you, Professor.’ He licks his lips again. He doesn’t know what else to say. He could ramble forever about this story, the thought he put into it, but he’s worried about sounding silly. Dumb. A little kid pretending to know the meanings of big words. ‘Your opinion really—really means a lot to me.’
‘You don’t have to call me Professor, Jisung.’ There’s something about his expression—his eyes, the curve of his mouth. It’s going to haunt Jisung all night.
‘Wh-what should I call you then?’ he asks, unsure what he’s doing. Is he trying to be bold? He can’t tell. He doesn’t feel bold. He feels like sun-softened honey. He freezes when he feels his professor’s hand on the top of his back.
‘Whatever you want,’ he says, just a beat late. Jisung nearly blurts out something embarrassing in response. ‘Just Minho is fine. I’ve never loved the formality, really.’
‘O-okay.’
‘I’ll let you get on with your day.’ He stands up from the table and slides his laptop into its sleeve. ‘I saw you leaving, and wanted to tell you in person. But I’ll e-mail you my proper feedback on your story.’
‘I—or I could—’ He casts his eyes down at his own feet for a moment, taps the leather toe of his boot against the floor. ‘I could come to your office hours,’ he says, a little breathless. He pulls his lip between his teeth and dares another look at Minho. ‘If you wanna—wanna talk about it. Tell me where you think I can improve.’
He gives him a long look. ‘Of course,’ he finally says. He puts his laptop bag into his leather satchel and closes it. ‘No, that’s a good idea. It’s on Thursdays, four to five. Do you know the number of my office?’
‘A970,’ he blurts. Of course he knows. He’s thought of going every week, but he couldn’t come up with a reason that wasn’t too transparent.
Minho slips the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’
Jisung nods, again too eagerly. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, just the two of them. In Minho’s office. Alone. It’s to discuss his short story, so why does it still feel like he has a date? Office hours are open for all his students—someone else could stop by with a question. It’s not a date. It’s the furthest thing from a date.
But the more he looks at him, the shyer he feels. Something bursts inside him, warm and red. Darker than a cherry.
‘Tomorrow,’ Jisung says, tugging on his rucksack. ‘I can’t wait,’ he adds. Not lying. He takes a step backwards towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Jisung.’