after class - part ten: the outsiders
synapse: after an awkward guidance-office chat, y/n storms into creel’s class demanding answers.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, emotional angst, fluff, jealousy
a/n: it’s been 84 years… wanted to get this out before tomorrow since I’ll be 23 by then 😝 I’ve just been busy and had bad writers block, nothing changed, I still love Mr. Letmesitonit
PART ELEVEN IS LINKED HERE
Y/N hadn’t planned on it turning into that kind of conversation.
She’d gone to the student services wing for something mundane: paperwork, a schedule change, a form she needed signed. Something that should’ve taken five minutes and zero emotional energy. The guidance office smelled like cheap coffee and pencil shavings and whatever floral air freshener someone had tried to use to make institutional carpet feel comforting.
Patty Newby looked up from her desk with an easy, practiced smile, the kind adults wore when they wanted to seem approachable. Her office was neat in a way that felt intentional: brochures lined up in clean stacks, a framed poster about “YOUR FUTURE” on the wall, and a tiny plant by the window that somehow looked alive despite everything.
“Hi,” Patty said warmly. “Come on in.”
Y/N stepped inside, clutching the folder to her chest. She tried to keep her expression neutral. Patty wasn’t the enemy. Patty wasn’t Daniel Taylor. Patty didn’t know everything. Patty was just—
The woman Henry had been seen with in the hallway.
The name that still made something possessive flare in Y/N’s chest before she could stop it.
Patty gestured to the chair. “You can sit. What can I help you with?”
Y/N explained the reason she was there, brief and practical, the kind of student problem Patty probably solved ten times a day. Patty nodded along, made a note, turned a form over, and slid it back with a pen.
Patty’s eyes flicked up as she capped the pen. “You’re in Professor Creel’s English course, right?”
Y/N’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”
Patty smiled, like she’d just found something interesting. “How is he?”
Y/N blinked. “How is he… as a professor?”
Patty’s expression held for a second, too smooth. Then she laughed lightly, as if she hadn’t meant anything by it.
“Yes. As a professor,” she echoed, a little too quick.
Patty cleared her throat, glancing down at Y/N’s file again. “He’s brilliant,” she said, and there was an intimacy in the word that didn’t belong in a guidance office. “Always has been.”
Y/N kept her face calm with effort. “He’s good at what he does.”
Patty’s smile widened, pleased. “That’s what I thought.” She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands like she’d decided they weren’t in a hurry anymore. “You know, it’s funny. He usually doesn’t engage with students the way he does with you.”
Y/N’s pulse ticked up. “Engage?”
Patty lifted a shoulder. “I mean, he notices you. It’s obvious.” She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “You challenge him. That’s rare.”
Y/N’s throat felt tight. “I’m just doing the work.”
Patty’s eyes held hers, the smile still there but sharper around the edges. “Maybe. But I’ve been around faculty for a while. I can tell when a professor has a favorite student.”
Y/N forced a small, polite smile that probably looked like a grimace. “Is there something you needed?”
Patty hesitated, then sighed as if she were about to confess something silly. “This is off topic,” she admitted, lowering her voice slightly like it was a secret, “but I was going to ask you something.”
Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Okay.”
Patty’s fingers tapped once on the desk, nervous for the first time. “Henry and I dated when we were teenagers.”
Y/N’s face stayed composed out of sheer willpower.
Inside, jealousy lit up like a match.
“Oh,” Y/N said, as neutrally as she could manage.
Patty smiled, almost nostalgic. “It was a long time ago. But we stayed friendly. And lately I’ve been seeing him again around campus, in meetings.” She tilted her head, studying Y/N in a way that felt too knowing. “And I thought…”
Y/N’s nails dug into her folder.
Patty continued, voice still light. “I thought maybe I should try to get his attention again.”
Y/N’s blood went cold-hot in the span of a breath. She kept her voice steady. “Why are you telling me this?”
Patty blinked, then gave an awkward laugh. “Because you’re close to him. In class.” She shrugged like it made perfect sense. “You’re his favorite student. I figured you’d know if he’s receptive, or if he’s just…” She made a vague gesture. “Being Henry.”
Y/N wanted to stand up and walk out.
She wanted to say something cruel.
She wanted to ask Patty if she was always this comfortable discussing her romantic life with nineteen-year-old students.
Instead, she swallowed it all and chose control.
Y/N smoothed her expression into something mild. “I don’t really know his personal life.”
Patty’s eyes narrowed slightly, not believing her. “You see him more than most people do.”
She kept her voice carefully polite. “He’s my professor.”
Patty held her gaze for a beat too long, then sighed, a little frustrated. “Okay. Fine. I’ll just ask you plainly.”
Y/N didn’t like the shift in Patty’s tone.
Patty leaned forward, elbows on the desk, like they were suddenly co-conspirators. “Do you think he’s available?”
The question hit like a slap.
Y/N felt the answer surge up instinctively, hot, jealous, possessive.
But she didn’t say that. She couldn’t.
So she chose the safest truth she could offer without exposing herself.
Y/N’s lips curved into a small, controlled smile, pleasant enough to pass, sharp enough to end the conversation.
“I believe he’s unavailable,” she said.
Patty blinked. “Unavailable.”
Y/N nodded once, like it was obvious, like it was a simple fact. “Yes.”
Patty stared at her for a moment, then leaned back, processing. Her face shifted through a few emotions: surprise, disappointment, and a quick flicker of curiosity.
“Did he say that?” Patty asked.
Y/N’s smile didn’t move. “Not to me. But I think there are signs.”
Patty’s eyes narrowed again, but she didn’t push, at least not directly.
“Huh,” Patty murmured, tapping her pen against the desk. “Well. That’s interesting.”
Y/N stood, folder tucked back against her chest. “If that’s all, I should get going.”
Patty looked up, her warm counselor smile trying to return, but it didn’t quite fit the moment anymore. “Of course. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”
Y/N nodded, already halfway to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when Patty added, almost casually, “He’s a difficult man to read.”
Then she looked back over her shoulder, calm as ice.
And she left before her jealousy could turn into something loud enough for Patty to hear.
After lunch, the hallways felt louder.
Not because anything had actually changed. Students still moved in clusters, lockers still slammed, and someone still laughed too hard at something unfunny. It felt louder because Y/N’s head was full of Patty Newby’s voice and the way she’d said it like it was normal.
We dated when we were teenagers.
I thought maybe I should try to get his attention again.
The worst part was how easily it fit into every insecurity Y/N had been trying not to feed. How quickly her mind filled in blanks she didn’t even have proof for: Henry and Patty in the hallway, Henry going to lunch with her, Henry calling her a colleague with that too-smooth calm like he was hiding an entire chapter.
By the time Y/N reached the campus café, she was already angry.
A cheap paper cup with a plastic lid, hot enough to sting her palm through the cardboard sleeve. It wasn’t a sweet gesture. It was ammunition.
She walked to his classroom with the cup in her hand, coat still on, boots hitting the floor with purpose. The closer she got, the more she could feel her pulse in her throat.
The door to Henry’s classroom was open, early as usual. He was inside alone at his desk, papers stacked neatly, chalk already on the tray, preparing to slide back into Professor Creel like nothing in his life was complicated.
He looked up when she entered.
His gaze went first to her face.
His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sharpened immediately, alert.
Y/N didn’t greet him. She didn’t smile. She didn’t soften the blow.
She walked straight to his desk and placed the coffee down hard enough to make it thud against the wood.
Henry’s eyes flicked down, then up again, calm but attentive. “Good afternoon,” he said evenly.
Y/N’s mouth tightened. “Save it.”
Henry leaned back slightly, studying her the way he studied a difficult line of text: quiet, careful, already bracing.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Not a question meant to scold. A question meant to understand.
Y/N let out a sharp breath through her nose. “I just saw Patty Newby.”
Henry’s gaze held hers. He didn’t blink. He didn’t ask who.
“And?” he said carefully.
Y/N’s anger flashed hotter. “And she told me you two used to date.” Her eyes narrowed. “Teenagers. History. Nostalgia. All that.”
Y/N leaned forward, palms flattening on the edge of his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Henry stayed still. “It wasn’t relevant.”
Y/N barked a humorless laugh. “Not relevant?”
Henry’s eyes didn’t waver. “No.”
Y/N’s voice dropped, dangerous. “She asked me if she should go after you again.”
A flicker, brief and sharp, crossed Henry’s face. Not fear. Not guilt.
And something darker, like he didn’t like the idea of Patty putting Y/N in that position for even a second.
Y/N saw it and pressed harder anyway, because her chest was tight with jealousy and she needed the truth to cut through it.
“She called you difficult to read,” Y/N said. “She wanted my advice. Like I’m your damn liaison.” Her eyes burned. “And you keep calling her your colleague like it makes it harmless. Colleagues, my ass.”
Henry inhaled slowly, as if he were forcing himself not to react emotionally in a room where he taught logic and language.
Not abruptly. Deliberately.
He stepped around the desk and closed the distance to where Y/N stood.
His voice lowered. “She shouldn’t have spoken to you about that.”
Y/N’s chin lifted. “But she did.”
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “And what did you tell her?”
Y/N’s lips curved, tight and bitter. “I told her you were unavailable.”
Something in Henry’s expression shifted. Not soft, but pleased in a way he didn’t want to show.
His eyes flicked over Y/N’s face like he was checking for damage.
“And how,” he asked quietly, “did she respond?”
Y/N’s shoulders rose and fell. “Like she was surprised. Like she didn’t believe me.”
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and controlled, threaded with sincerity that had nothing to do with classroom tone. “There is nothing between Patty and me.”
Y/N searched his eyes. “Then why didn’t you tell me you had history?”
Henry held her gaze. “Because it was years ago. It ended years ago. And she isn’t…” He stopped himself, as if choosing the next words mattered more than anything else. “She isn’t part of my life in the way you think.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “But you go to lunch with her. You talk to her. You act like—”
“I talk to her because she works here,” Henry cut in, still quiet, still controlled, but firmer now. “And because it is easier for people to assume I’m normal when I’m seen doing normal things.”
Y/N stared at him, breathing hard.
Henry’s expression didn’t soften, but his eyes did, just slightly.
“I didn’t tell you about the past because I didn’t want you carrying it,” he said. “I didn’t want you comparing yourself to her, or to anyone else. I didn’t want you dragged into something that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” Y/N snapped.
Henry nodded once, immediate, accepting. “I see that.”
Y/N’s anger trembled at the edges, starting to crack into something more vulnerable. “I hate feeling like I’m always finding things out after the fact,” she admitted, quieter now. “Like you get to decide what I can handle. Like you keep pieces of yourself locked away and I’m supposed to just accept whatever you hand me.”
Henry’s gaze locked onto hers, intense. “You’re right,” he said. “I have done that.”
Y/N blinked, thrown off by the lack of defense.
Henry stepped a fraction closer, close enough that she could feel him, but not so close it felt like pressure.
“I didn’t tell you because it was simpler,” he said. “And I like simplicity. I like control. I like keeping parts of my life separate.” His voice lowered further. “But you don’t do well with separate.”
Henry’s eyes held hers, steady. “And I don’t want her,” he said plainly. “Not now. Not then. Not the way she’s imagining.”
Henry didn’t flinch from it. He let the silence sit for a beat, then added, quieter, more honest than he probably intended:
“She is not the woman I want.”
Henry’s gaze drifted to her mouth for the briefest moment, then returned to her eyes like he was forcing himself to stay grounded.
“If she thinks she has a chance,” he continued, voice calm but edged, “it’s because she doesn’t know what my life looks like now.”
Y/N’s fingers curled against the desk edge. “And what does your life look like now?”
Henry’s expression tightened, the control in him straining against the truth.
“It looks like you,” he said quietly. “And it has for weeks.”
Y/N stared at him, anger still there, but dulled by the steadiness in his voice.
Henry’s eyes searched her face. “If you want honesty, you will have it,” he said. “But don’t mistake my silence for wanting someone else.”
Y/N’s throat tightened, and she hated that her eyes stung.
“Patty can be whatever she wants to be,” Henry added, voice darker now, “but she is not what I’m reaching for.”
Y/N’s breath hitched, and the jealousy in her chest, hot and mean a minute ago, shifted into something else.
Henry glanced toward the door, toward the hallway where students would start arriving soon. His jaw flexed like he hated time.
Then he looked back at her, voice low, certain.
“Tell me what you need from me,” he said. “And I’ll give it to you.”
Y/N swallowed, still gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
“Don’t hide things,” she said finally, voice rough. “Not that. Not anything that could touch us.”
Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on hers. “All right,” he said. “No more.”
The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the hallway noise was getting closer: footsteps, voices, the world returning.
Henry’s hand lifted slightly, then stopped himself from touching her in the open. His eyes flicked to the coffee she’d slammed down earlier.
“You brought me this,” he murmured.
Y/N’s mouth tightened, embarrassed at the evidence of her feelings. “Shut up.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, a small smile, and his gaze softened just enough to make her chest ache.
“I’m here,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Y/N held his gaze for a beat, still upset, still bruised, but steadied by the way he said it like a vow.
Then she stepped back, drawing a breath, preparing to put her mask on before the first student walked in.
But the look Henry gave her, dark and certain and unmistakably hers, stayed on her skin like heat long after she turned away.
Henry’s lecture settled into its usual rhythm.
Chalk tapped against the board in clean, deliberate strokes. Pages turned in near-unison. His voice carried through the room in that steady, controlled cadence that made even dense literature sound inevitable.
Y/N sat where she always did now, pen moving automatically, eyes forward. She looked composed, attentive, even. But inside, she was still replaying their conversation from earlier.
Her coffee cup sat on the corner of his desk like incriminating evidence.
Nancy sat beside her, technically paying attention, which meant her notebook was open and her pen was in her hand but Y/N could feel the restless energy rolling off her like static.
It took Nancy exactly fifteen minutes to snap.
A folded note slid onto Y/N’s desk, pushed over with two fingers like contraband in a prison yard.
Y/N didn’t look at it right away. Henry was mid-sentence, pacing the front row, and she wasn’t about to get caught.
Nancy nudged the paper closer with increasing aggression.
Y/N finally unfolded it beneath her notebook.
In Nancy’s sharp, angular handwriting:
Need details. NOW. You came in this morning to shower/change and we haven’t talked.
Y/N’s mouth twitched despite herself. She picked up her pen and wrote a reply in smaller letters, careful to keep her eyes on the board like she was still taking notes.
I just spent my Friday/weekend at Henry’s.
Nancy read it and made a face so dramatic it should’ve earned her extra credit in acting. Her eyebrows shot up. Her lips formed a silent, scandalized Oh my God. It wasn’t the fact she was with Henry, she knew this but the fact she was with Henry for days on end after Y/N refused to leave her bed after that nasty breakup.
Then Nancy scribbled furiously and shoved the note back over.
Are you two back together??
Y/N stared at the question longer than she should have.
Because the honest answer wasn’t neat.
Henry had kissed her like a decision. Held her like he meant it. Made love to her nearly every single day she was at his home. Stayed when it would’ve been easier to leave.
He still had walls. He still had rules. He still kept parts of himself compartmentalized like they were fragile glass.
Nancy leaned closer, eyes narrowed, and made an aggressive little shooing motion with her hand like she was her editor on deadline.
Y/N swallowed, then finally wrote:
Nancy read it and immediately tightened her jaw, not at Y/N, but at the universe for giving her such an unsatisfying answer. She started writing something back anyway, pen moving fast like she physically couldn’t let it go.
Then Henry’s voice cut through the room.
Henry stood near the front row, chalk still in hand, eyes fixed on Nancy’s desk with that professor stare that could flatten someone without raising his voice.
“You’d like to pay attention?” he said evenly.
The class went quiet in that half-second hush that always followed when he singled someone out.
Nancy rolled her eyes, expression blank but defiant.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I’ll pay attention.”
Henry held her gaze for one beat longer than necessary, a silent, unmistakable warning before turning back to the board as if nothing had happened.
Nancy waited until his back was fully turned before leaning toward Y/N and whispering through her teeth, “I hate him.”
Y/N kept her eyes forward, pen moving, but her mouth twitched. “I know.”
Nancy tapped her pen against the note like she was physically vibrating with more questions. Then, with visible effort, she forced herself to look at the board with exaggerated obedience.
But the folded paper still sat between them on the desk like a live wire.
Y/N stared at Henry’s back as he wrote across the board, shoulders straight, voice calm, utterly composed.
It would be so much easier if it were clean.
Instead, it was this strange, in-between place where he looked at her like she was inevitable and still guarded himself like he expected the world to take it away.
Her eyes drifted briefly to the side of his face as he turned.
But she could feel the restraint in it.
The deliberate avoidance.
And somehow that said more than if he’d stared.
Nancy’s pen scratched loudly in her notebook beside her, aggressive and judgmental.
Y/N glanced down at the folded note one more time before sliding it fully under her textbook, burying it like it might explode.
And right now, honesty felt like the only solid ground she had.
The last bell sent the room into motion: chairs scraping, notebooks snapping shut, students already halfway out the door in their minds. Henry gathered his papers at the front with his usual neat precision, his voice fading into the background as he dismissed the class.
Y/N and Nancy packed up together, shoulder to shoulder in their familiar routine. Nancy’s movements were brisk, still irritated on principle, still watching Henry like he was a hazard sign she refused to ignore. Y/N tried to keep her face neutral, but her nerves were already tightening because she could feel it: Henry’s attention lingering, waiting for the room to empty.
They were almost at the door when Henry spoke.
Nancy stopped too, slowly and pointedly, turning just enough to look over her shoulder at Henry as if daring him to justify the request.
Y/N swallowed and forced a calm tone. “It’s fine,” she murmured to Nancy, more reassurance than certainty.
Nancy did not move right away. Her eyes flicked to Y/N, then back to Henry, sharp and assessing. She took her time sliding her notebook into her bag as if making a statement about how much she did not care and how much she absolutely did.
Then she stepped closer to the door, pausing at the threshold.
She looked straight at Henry. “Creel.”
Henry turned his attention on her at the mention of his name.
Nancy’s voice was quiet, low enough that a student in the hall would not hear, but it carried the full force of Nancy Wheeler’s promise of consequences.
“I own a gun,” she said plainly.
Y/N’s stomach dipped, because Nancy was not bluffing. She had seen it in Hawkins, the little collection Nancy kept in her cute little closet in her cute little room, and the way Nancy knew exactly how to hold one even if she did not talk about it often.
Henry’s face stayed composed, but something in his eyes tightened.
Nancy continued, still calm, as if she were discussing a syllabus requirement. “If you mess up again…”
She let the sentence hang.
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Nancy—”
Nancy did not look at her. Her gaze stayed pinned to Henry, unwavering. “I’m serious,” she finished, soft and lethal.
Henry’s jaw flexed once. His voice was controlled. “Understood.”
Nancy stared at him a beat longer, as if measuring whether he meant it.
Then she turned and left, shoes clicking down the hallway with the satisfaction of someone who had delivered a warning she fully intended to enforce.
The door swung shut behind her.
The classroom went quiet.
Y/N exhaled slowly, hands tightening around her bag strap. “She’s intense.”
Henry’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Y/N. “Yes.”
Y/N tried to hide her grim little smile. “She’s not lying.”
Henry did not ask how she knew. He simply nodded once, as if he had already assumed the worst and accepted it.
He moved closer, not too close and not immediately, but enough that the space between them felt private. His voice lowered into something meant only for her.
“I spoke with Patty,” he said.
Y/N’s shoulders tightened immediately. “You did?”
“Yes.” Henry’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes were steady and serious. “I made it clear to her that I am unavailable.”
Y/N searched his face, waiting for the familiar caveats, the carefulness, the half-truths.
“I am telling you because you asked me not to hide things,” he continued, “and because I want you to know you do not have to worry.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “Not this time,” she whispered.
Henry’s gaze held hers. “Not this time.”
The simplicity of it made her chest ache because it was what she had wanted all along. Not perfection. Not grand gestures. Just proof that he could choose her in ways that did not hurt.
Henry glanced down at the papers in his hand as if he had forgotten they existed. Then he looked back at her, and something in his expression softened, subtle and controlled, but there.
“I was thinking,” he said.
Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, dear, we’re in trouble already.”
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile. “After school,” he continued, “I need to go to the Boston Public Library.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he did not like being teased. “Yes.”
Y/N’s smile grew. “Do you?”
Henry did not answer the question directly. He simply said, quieter, “Come with me.”
The words landed differently than my apartment.
They did not feel like secrecy.
They felt like intention.
Y/N’s chest warmed, and she could not stop the smile that spread across her face, small at first, then genuine.
“You are asking me on a date,” she said softly.
Henry’s jaw tightened as if he hated the label.
But his eyes did not deny it.
“I am asking you to come,” he said.
Y/N nodded, trying to play it cool and failing. “Okay.”
Henry watched her reaction for a beat, as if storing it somewhere, as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit.
Y/N adjusted her bag strap, still smiling, and stepped toward the door with a lighter feeling in her chest than she had carried all week.
Behind her, Henry’s voice stopped her one last time, quiet and careful but steady.
His gaze held hers, serious in a way that cut through everything else.
“I meant it,” he said. “I am not leaving again.”
Y/N’s smile softened into something almost tender.
“I will meet you after my last class,” she replied.
As she walked out into the hallway, the idea of the library waiting after school felt like the first real breath she had taken in days.
The Boston Public Library felt like a cathedral that had decided to be kind.
Outside, the city moved fast, cars hissing over wet streets, people cutting through the cold with shoulders hunched and coffee held like a lifeline. But the moment Henry pushed open the heavy doors, the air changed. Warmth. Silence. The faint smell of paper and old glue and polished wood. A hush so complete it made Y/N’s footsteps sound too loud until she instinctively slowed.
Henry didn’t say much at first. He never did when he walked into a place that already spoke his language.
His hand stayed near hers—close, not touching at first, as if he hadn’t decided what level of public bravery he could tolerate. He kept his posture straight, his coat buttoned, his gaze measured. Everything about him still carried that “faculty” stiffness, even though they were miles away from campus.
Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye as they climbed the steps inside.
He looked like he belonged here. Like he could vanish into the stacks and live among the spines and never have to explain himself to anyone again.
Y/N bumped his elbow gently with hers. “You’re doing it.”
Henry glanced at her. “Doing what?”
“Breathing,” she said dryly. “For the first time all day.”
Henry’s mouth tightened like he disapproved of her teasing, but his eyes softened slightly. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s the point,” Y/N said, looking around. People sat at long tables under lamps, heads bent over books. A librarian moved like a ghost between shelves. No one was laughing loud. No one was staring. No one cared who was holding whose hand.
At least… no one should’ve.
They moved into the main reading room first—high ceilings, green desk lamps, rows of tables that looked like they’d been there since the beginning of time. Henry slowed like he couldn’t help it, gaze traveling up the walls, up the columns, the carved details, the quiet grandeur.
Y/N watched his face, waiting for the usual guardedness, but for a moment he looked almost… reverent. Like he’d walked into somewhere holy.
“You like it,” she said softly.
Henry’s gaze flicked to her. “I’m allowed to like libraries.”
Y/N smiled. “You’re allowed to like things.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a sigh. “Don’t start.”
But it was too late. She already had.
They moved deeper into the building, toward the stacks, and that was where the date really started, where Henry stopped performing and started showing.
He gravitated instinctively toward the literature section, fingers brushing spines like they were old acquaintances. He pulled down a couple of books, flipping them open to specific pages like he could find his favorite lines blindfolded.
Y/N trailed behind him, amused. “Do you always read like you’re searching for evidence?”
Henry glanced at her over the top of a book. “Do you always talk like you’re trying to provoke a confession?”
He set the book back and finally, finally, his hand found hers.
Just his fingers sliding into hers like it had always been meant to happen in a quiet place like this.
Y/N’s chest tightened. She pretended it didn’t.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
Henry’s tone softened, the way it always did when he talked about books. “Something I can reread without feeling like I’m grading it.”
Y/N laughed quietly. “So… not Hamlet.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Not Hamlet.”
Y/N slipped free of his hand long enough to pull a book from a shelf and hold it up. “Okay. Then I’m going to recommend something.”
Henry arched an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
Y/N’s eyes gleamed with the familiar spark she’d been missing for weeks. “The Outsiders.”
Henry blinked. “S.E. Hinton?”
“Yes,” Y/N said, proud. “It’s my favorite.”
Henry took the book from her slowly, turning it over in his hands as if he was assessing a thesis. “Your favorite?”
Y/N nodded. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging,” he said, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I’m surprised.”
“Because you’re—” He stopped himself before he said you’re too smart for that, because he knew better now. Instead, he chose a different truth. “Because it’s not what I would’ve guessed.”
Y/N leaned closer, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret in the stacks. “That’s why it’s a good recommendation.”
Henry opened it, scanning the first page, then another. His gaze shifted, not dismissive, not amused. Interested.
“It’s… honest,” he murmured.
“Exactly,” Y/N said. “It’s not trying to be fancy. It just… hits.”
Henry’s eyes lifted to hers, thoughtful. “And you like it because…?”
Y/N shrugged, but her voice went quieter. “Because it’s about belonging and not belonging. And it’s about feeling like the world decided who you are before you even got to choose.” She swallowed. “And because… the writing is simple, but it still hurts.”
Henry stared at her for a beat, something in his eyes tightening and softening at the same time.
Then he nodded once. “All right.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “All right?”
Henry held her gaze. “All right. I’ll read it.”
Y/N’s smile warmed, genuine. “Good.”
They wandered after that, pulling books down and trading them back and forth like offerings.
Henry recommended a thin volume of poetry that made Y/N groan until he insisted she “try it anyway.” Y/N recommended something a little messier, a little more emotional, just to watch him pretend he didn’t like it.
For a while, it was easy.
Then Henry started doing it.
At first it was subtle, his gaze flicking up whenever someone walked past the aisle, his shoulders squaring slightly as if bracing. Then again when a group of college-aged students passed too close, laughing quietly. Then when a man in a blazer walked by carrying a briefcase.
Each time, Henry’s hand tightened around the book he was holding.
Each time, his grip on hers loosened.
Y/N watched him do it until her patience started to fray.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to tell herself it was habit, fear, self-preservation.
But it still stung because here they were, finally somewhere that felt safe, and he was still scanning the room like danger could wear an Emerson faculty badge.
“You’re doing it again,” Y/N said finally, voice low.
Henry’s gaze snapped back to her. “Doing what?”
“Looking for ghosts,” she said.
Henry’s jaw tightened. “I’m being careful.”
Y/N stared at him, irritation flashing. “We’re not on campus.”
Henry didn’t relax. “That doesn’t mean—”
“You can’t even hold my hand without checking if someone is watching,” Y/N interrupted, and the hurt crept into her tone before she could stop it. “What is the point of a date if you’re still acting like I’m a scandal waiting to happen?”
Henry’s eyes darkened. “Y/N—”
“No,” she said, quietly fierce. “I’m not asking you to scream my name in the middle of the reading room. I’m asking you to be here. With me.”
Henry swallowed, gaze flicking away for a fraction of a second like the words hit him somewhere tender.
“Come here,” Y/N said abruptly.
Y/N reached for his hand and didn’t give him time to argue. She laced her fingers through his with a firm, decisive grip and started walking.
Henry followed automatically, startled but letting her pull him along. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere you can stop acting like you’re about to be arrested,” she muttered.
She pulled him through a corridor, down a set of steps, past a quiet gallery space, and toward the light spilling in from an open doorway.
The air changed again as they stepped outside, cooler, fresher, the city hush still present but softened by open space. The courtyard fountain was running, water spilling gently into a basin, the sound steady and calming. Stone and brick surrounded them, the sky visible above like a promise.
Y/N didn’t stop until they reached the fountain.
Then she let go of his hand only to sit down on the stone edge, tugging Henry with her until he sat too.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The water filled the silence.
Henry’s shoulders were still tense, but the open air seemed to ease something. At least here, his eyes couldn’t scan the room the same way. Here, there were no tight aisles and sudden footsteps.
Y/N looked at him, waiting.
Henry stared at the fountain for a beat, then finally spoke, voice quiet. “I’m trying.”
Y/N’s irritation softened, just a fraction.
“I know,” she said. “But trying looks a lot like doubting me sometimes.”
Henry’s gaze turned to her, dark and honest. “I’m not doubting you.”
Henry exhaled slowly, the sound almost like defeat. “I’m afraid of what happens if someone recognizes me,” he admitted. “If someone recognizes us.”
Y/N leaned closer, voice lower. “Not this time,” she reminded him, echoing what he’d said earlier.
Henry’s jaw flexed. “I want to believe that.”
Y/N’s hand slid back into his, gentler now. “Then do.”
Henry looked down at their hands, then up at her face, and something in his expression shifted, something like surrender.
He tightened his fingers around hers. “All right.”
Y/N’s chest warmed. She smiled, small and victorious. “Good.”
Henry glanced at the book she’d recommended, still tucked under his arm. “So,” he said, voice calmer now, “tell me why The Outsiders is your favorite.”
Y/N’s smile widened. “I already did.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me again. Properly.”
Y/N laughed softly and leaned in, starting to talk, really talk, about characters and loyalty and the ache of being young and underestimated. And Henry listened, eyes steady now, not scanning, not searching.
By the fountain, in the quiet, the date resumed the way it was supposed to, two people trading stories and books and pieces of themselves, finally letting the world stay outside the walls for a while.
The fountain kept its steady rhythm, a soft rush of water that made the courtyard feel insulated from the rest of Boston. Voices from the street beyond the walls came and went like distant weather. The air was cold enough that Y/N’s breath faintly showed when she laughed, but not cold enough to make her stop talking.
She was mid-thought, hands moving as she explained something about The Outsiders, about loyalty and her favorite character, Dally, and the way people decided what you were worth before you even opened your mouth. She leaned forward when she got passionate, brows knitting, eyes bright like the entire book was alive in her head.
Henry sat beside her, the book resting in his lap.
He was supposed to be listening.
Not in the way he listened to students in class, not in the way he listened to arguments, hunting for structure and flaw and thesis. Her words washed over him in fragments, Ponyboy, Johnny, Dally, innocence, violence, tenderness because what he heard most clearly was the sound of her voice itself.
The cadence. The certainty. The way it softened when she said something honest.
He watched her mouth as she spoke, how it shaped each word, how it pulled into a quick smile when she was pleased with her own point, how she bit her bottom lip briefly when she was searching for the right phrasing. He watched her hands, fingers tracing invisible lines in the air, a habit that looked like she was writing even when she wasn’t holding a pen.
He watched the way the wind tugged at her hair and she didn’t notice. The way she tucked a strand behind her ear without breaking eye contact, still talking, still entirely herself.
Beautiful, yes but not in a distant, decorative way.
In a way that felt like danger.
Because Henry had always been a man who survived by categorizing his life. By separating the parts that were safe from the parts that weren’t. By telling himself that certain feelings belonged in certain places and nowhere else.
She bled into everything.
He’d seen her in his classroom, too bright for the stale air, too alive for the rigid structure he tried to keep. He’d seen her in his apartment, barefoot and fearless, wearing his shirts like she’d rewritten the rules of his space. He’d seen her crying on his couch, trembling with the kind of honesty that made him want to do violence to the past on her behalf. He’d seen her furious, sharp and proud, refusing to let him control the narrative of her pain.
And now here she was, in the open, sitting beside him like it was natural, talking about a book like she trusted him to hold her thoughts gently.
Not with lust this time. Not with panic.
Something that didn’t belong in his world because it wasn’t rational and it wasn’t safe and it didn’t obey rules.
He tried to name it the way he named everything else.
Attachment. Habit. Chemistry. A complication.
Y/N laughed softly at something she’d just said, and the sound hit him like warmth in the middle of winter.
Henry’s gaze drifted over her face as if he was memorizing it under the gray sky: her lashes, dampened slightly by the cold, the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes shifted when she looked at him like she could tell when he wasn’t listening.
“Are you even hearing me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with playful suspicion.
Henry blinked, forced himself back into the present. “Yes.”
Y/N tilted her head. “Then what did I just say.”
He knew he should’ve answered. He knew he should’ve grabbed onto one of the book details and played along.
Instead, he looked at her—really looked, and something in him slipped.
His voice came out lower, quieter, without the professor polish. “You’re extraordinary.”
Y/N froze for half a beat.
Her expression flickered, surprise first, then awe, then a quick attempt to hide how much it affected her.
“That’s not an answer,” she said, but her voice was softer now.
Henry didn’t blink. “I know.”
Y/N’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Henry…”
He watched her closely, and suddenly all the careful barriers he’d built felt thin like paper, like something she could tear through with one honest sentence.
He’d tried to let her go. He’d tried to cut her loose, to make her hate him, to save her future by sacrificing his own want.
And she’d come back anyway.
She was sitting here anyway.
Henry’s fingers tightened around the book in his lap as the realization sharpened, clear, undeniable, terrifyingly simple.
It wasn’t just that he wanted her.
It wasn’t just that he liked her.
It wasn’t just that she made him feel alive.
The thought settled into him like a weight and a relief at the same time, like something he’d been fighting had finally won.
He hated it immediately because love was dangerous, love was messy, love gave people leverage.
And he loved it anyway because it felt like truth.
Y/N was watching him now, her smile gone, eyes searching his face like she could see the shift.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
Henry’s throat tightened. He forced a controlled breath, trying to gather himself, to pull the emotion back into a box like he always did.
“I’m listening,” he lied.
Y/N’s brows lifted. “No, you’re not.”
Henry’s gaze stayed on hers, heavy and steady. “No,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not.”
Y/N’s fingers slid into his hand, gentle. “Then what are you doing?”
Henry looked down at their joined hands, then back at her.
But his eyes gave him away, the softness in them too deep to be mistaken for anything else.
Y/N’s breath caught slightly, and her voice went quieter. “Henry…”
He swallowed, jaw flexing like he was fighting himself.
“I’m trying,” he said, the words rough with restraint, “to remember what it feels like when life is simple.”
Y/N studied him, then softened. “And is it?”
Henry’s gaze held hers, unwavering.
“When it’s you,” he said softly, “it is.”
And the way he said it, like a confession he couldn’t take back, made the space between them feel charged, the fountain suddenly too loud, the cold air suddenly irrelevant.
Because even without the words, even without the declaration, the truth was there, sitting between them on the stone edge of the fountain, impossible to ignore.
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