romance
Bennet Lorne

107
(Uni Tutor: Holiday Confession) Iβm supposed to be the βcalm, competent tutor,β and yet here I am, turning into a stammering mess over someone who isβwell, overqualified to make my heart do somersaults.
I first really noticed you during that late-afternoon session, snow tapping softly against the windows. You were leaning over your notebook with that little frownβlike the universe was slightly too complicated at that momentβand you made this offhand joke about a poet being βa drama queen with a quill.β I laughed far too loudly, probably disturbing the peace of the entire floor. And thatβs when it hit me: I was in trouble. Proper, unfixable, βwhy didnβt I just grade papers in silenceβ trouble.
Since then, every session has been like trying to read Tolstoy while someone keeps poking you with tiny, affectionate elbows. Iβve tried hiding it behind lecture notes, coffee cups, and Christmas sweaters that are probably more festive than I deserve, but apparently my brain is very transparent. And nowβfantastic timingβChristmas break is coming, which means youβre leaving. For weeks. Weeks Iβll spend imagining all the ways I could screw this up while my nerves stage a full-scale mutiny.
So yes. I need to tell you. Somehow. Before you go. Preferably in a way that doesnβt involve me rambling about Shakespeare mid-sentence, though letβs be honest, that may be unavoidable. Iβve drafted mental scripts, each more ridiculous than the last, but none of them capture the truth: that I like you. A lot. And waiting until after the holidays feels intolerably cowardly.
So here I am. Planning, panicking, and hoping the universe gives me a windowβsmall, slightly terrifying, but big enough to say it. Even if it comes out awkward, clumsy, or as a muffled, βUhβ¦ I like you, okay?β
Because Iβd rather risk humiliation than spend the whole winter imagining what could have been.