Prof! Harry part 2 (Patreon)

You guys really seem to like him! So he's back for more :D

_____________________________________________________________________________

ii. 

Just as it felt weird for students to come in contact with a professor outside of a school setting, it was the same sort of odd feeling when a professor saw their student. Harry could think of a few times he’d bumped into one of those attending his class -- once he was on a date, and subsequently the girl in his 8AM lecture was on one too, but she was looking for an excuse to leave early so he gave her the idea that she had a ten page paper to start (which she did) and that a prompt 10PM curfew was in order for it. Another time, one of his male students called his name across three isles in the kitchen section of a Homesense before jogging over with a dopey grin and a requested extension on his essay. One other time, Harry had been caught red handed in a liquor isle with one of his students that he knew for a fact was not of age to be drinking, so he scolded them for being the especially when he expected them in class the next day (“but if you’re going to drink anyway at least be safe about it, yeah?”).

It was different -- he forgets that they’re people too, outside of the lecture hall and off campus they can be here, there, and everywhere just like he could. They never seem to be too put off by his presence apart from the fact that they’ll catch him in sweatpants or the shorts he works out in, but he reckons that’s because he still looks around their age. A few of them have even commented on how nice his hair was mussed instead of styled which -- well, he could never tell if that was a compliment or not. And no matter how much he related to a student, he always felt like a deer in headlights when he was met with them in public. 

Which is much like how he felt now, staring bug eyed and startled when he realized that the person he is seeing across from him at a club where the lighting was scant, was his student Y/N. Y/N, who had forwent her usual baggy sweatshirts and beat up sneakers, and instead wore a tank top with a marabou feather neckline that stopped just below her belly button, and a pair of jeans that hugged her hips tightly but were baggy around her legs. Holes were ripped jagged in the denim and absently, through the whirlwind his mind was flipping through trying to understand what he’s being met with, he hopes that she has a thick enough coat to shield her from the wind outside. 

He doesn’t know if it would be this weird seeing her had he not been ignoring her for the two weeks prior but that definitely added to the tenseness he felt in his shoulders. And it’s not exactly like he could merely retreat midconversation with Adam -- who he had come out with in the first place to get his mind off of the mess that he had created for himself. Though instead of a place of solace, he wonders if this could be his worst nightmare.

Y/N was a smart girl -- she understood things about the complexities of the human brain that it took Harry a few years in graduate school to fully comprehend -- but it wouldn’t take a genius to sense that he’s avoiding her. Normally he answers her emails promptly, with exclamations and offers to come into his office hours, even adding additional links or documentaries he thinks she might find interesting. Those familiar emails took a back seat to more professional ones, starting with a greeting, the body gives her just the information she needs, and then he signs off. He all but rushes out of the classroom or calls for someone else to speak with instead of moseying around and waiting for her to wander up to him. Instead of going up to her when he sees her in the hallways of their building or slowing down some so she can catch up to him when he catches her walking to his lecture on campus while he is -- he takes different routes. 

She could take a hint -- she hadn’t appeared at his office hours in the time he had been dodging her, and stopped trying to lock gazes during class when she found something amusing (a look that Harry had recognized as her, “I wanna talk about this in more depth later”). The guilt that overcomes him is immense on the off chance they do lock eyes, because she darts hers away from him quickly and shifts noticeably unsettled. 

Harry would never let this get in the way of her learning experience and if she raised her hand to ask a question he would call on her, but they’re never the analytical questions they used to be. They’re more so definition based -- things she might ask him offhandedly in his office hours because she didn’t understand what they meant in class but didn’t want to look like an idiot for asking. 

He hated it but it felt necessary. . .he needed to nip this in the bud -- stop it before they were ahead. 

However, once their gazes lock, he feels something in the room shift. Harry wonders what gave him away -- the blatant staring he was doing or the shimmery button up he had chosen off a whim, with ballooned mesh sleeves that show off more skin than he ever does in lecture. Whatever it may be, he doesn’t believe that Y/N is sober for a minute, from the way her face pulls up into a wide smile and he understands quickly that she’s leaving her huddle of friends and bulldozing her way through gyrating bodies to get to him, “Dr. Styles!” She called over the music, and despite her having to yell, there’s such a pleasant lilt to her voice that he’d not known he’d missed until right then, “Shouldn’t you be at home grading our papers?” 

“Shouldn’t you be at home studying for the exam Monday?” He counters, grip tightening on the rim of his glass -- he couldn’t decide if he was too drunk or not drunk enough for this. 

Her face scrunches up and he can tell that she’s giggling, before her eyes catch his shirt and they widen considerably, “This is so pretty!” Her hand comes out -- she touches him amicably, her hand at his bicep, “And your tattoos -- oh, whoa, I feel so underdressed compared to everyone here,” she motions around, before a limp hand refers to her own outfit, “My friends n’I do this thing -- we pick a decade to match clothes for when we go out. I got the 2000s but I feel like it could be a 90s one a bit.” 

“You look nice,” he calls over the music but she raises her brows, signifying she couldn’t hear him, so he bends closer toward her ear and repeats it. Much to his surprise, her arms slither around him in something of a hug, tight enough to make him pop with an unknown strength he hadn’t realized she possessed. His arm loops around her off instinct because while she has an iron-like grip she’s still unstable enough on her feet to take them both down. He’s mindful of his drink so he doesn’t slosh it over her shoulder, even more so when she withdraws abruptly. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes swiftly, shaking her head, standing a bit on her tiptoes so he can hear her, “I miss talking to you at your office hours and stuff,” she returns to where she had been before, which was still incredibly close -- Harry was struggling not to let his breathing waver at their proximity -- at how good she smelled, “Why do you hate me now, hm? What’d I do?” 

She’s pouting at him, Harry feels his heart twist in his chest -- she thought he hated her? God, it was the bloody opposite! 

Maybe it was against his better judgement and maybe he was tossing two weeks of work down the drain, but her eyes were glassy and she just seemed. . .she just seemed so far gone. To have a conversation like this in a club with the music so loud they have to yell at each other, wasn’t in either of their best interest. So he lowers again, tilting his face towards hers before suggesting they go outside. She nods exuberantly and pushes their way through the crowd, creating a pathway for him to travel easily through. Harry raises his arms up a bit, dodging bodies, holding his drink overhead so it didn’t knock into him. They made it outside much quicker than they would have had Harry been leading them -- to a small patio section reserved for those who felt claustrophobic but didn’t feel like worming all the way through to the front of the club. 

The door swings shut with a soft click that separates them from the inside, the music and bass muffled to nothing but insensible background noise. Harry doesn’t know how he plans on broaching the subject, and a sweat has built up on the back of his neck at the possible ways the conversation could go, but the perspiration was immediately cooled by the frigid air nipping them outside (the same air that was the large reason why they were the only two out here). 

“I don’t hate you,” he begins, clearing his throat, tossing a little bit of his drink back before he sets it down on a nearby table, “Of course I don’t hate you. You’re amazing --” too much, that was too much he needed to add something to the end of that, “--at the class. You’re friendly and personable. How could I hate you?” 

“Are you going through something then? Is that why you’re so. . .I dunno’ distant?” Her brows bisect in a furrow, “But that -- then you wouldn’t be talking to anyone then, right? You’ve only been avoiding me.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say -- does he admit that he overheard her conversation? The last thing he wants to do is make her feel uncomfortable, especially when none of this is her fault. . .he feels as if saying that he heard would be somewhat passing the blame onto her. He wasn’t doing this because he heard the conversation -- it was his response to the conversation. It’s his own feelings he’s fighting, not hers.

He sighs, feeling a headache gnawing at the edges of his brain, “I -- I just felt like --” he reaches up, pushing at his temple, “This might have been surpassing what is expected of a student-professor sort of ordeal, y’know? To no fault of your own! It was me. . .I was doing a poor job of keeping certain boundaries and --” 

“Oh god,” it leaves her suddenly, loudly. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her sound so mortified, “Fuck, you heard didn’t you? When I was talking to Florence in the library you heard. . .” she trailed off, her eyes darting around his face, reading every muscle twitch that said she was right on the ball, “I told her we shouldn’t be talking about that right next to the Psychology section, ‘cos I knew you go there but she was so convinced that -- oh god, I could crawl under a rock.”

She covers her face with her hands but Harry is quick to loop his fingers carefully around her wrists, tugging down slightly, “No, no, no, don’t feel embarrassed! It’s okay, I promise, emotions are just tricky, yeah? You can’t help how you feel.” 

“But I made you uncomfortable!” Her words are muffled by her palms, “That’s why you’re so standoffish is I -- it’s just a crush okay? It’ll pass, I’ll get over it, you don’t -- we can still -- you’re one of the best professors I’ve ever had! It feels like you care, you teach me so much and I feel so much smarter and more well rounded as an individual after spending time with you  and I don’t want to sacrifice that ‘cos of some stupid school girl crush.” She finally lets Harry pull her arms down, only revealing that her already glassy eyes had grown glassier. 

“I’m not uncomfortable! I’m not, I swear to it, Babe, I just --” he closes his eyes, uses one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Do you want to leave here? We could. . .we could go get something to eat? Would you like that?” 

He doesn’t know why he offers, he just figures that’s the best way to showcase to her that he isn’t uncomfortable with her. That he still enjoys her presence he just -- he needed to explain that he was doing a pisspoor job at maintaining the professionalism he was meant to maintain. That’s why he’d put some distance between the two. He never would have in this way had he known it would hurt her like this. 

“Yes,” she nodded, sniffling a little, “I’d like that a lot.” 

                                                          .                       .                      .

There was a small diner that stayed open at all hours of the night but in a nicer bit of town than they had been -- closer to where Harry stayed. A sweet woman called Delores was the frontman throughout the night shift and recognized him despite not having his laptop and about thirty essays left to grade glued to his side. She greeted him cheerly, telling him that they’ll have a plate of fries and a large oreo milkshake out in a jiffy before she turned her attention to Y/N, “What would you like, Doll? We’ve got any flavor you could think of but I reckon you wanna start with something y’know.” 

“Chocolate please.” Y/N replied, her voice feathery and gentle -- it made his insides warm, “Thank you -- I like your earrings.” 

Delores had large butterflies adhered to the lobe of her ears -- what she had once told Harry were her favorite pair, because it was the last gift her uncle had given her before he passed back in the 80s. “What a sweetheart,” Delores smiles -- it dimples her chin and crinkles at her eyes, “Bring her ‘round more, won’t you? M’tired of only seeing your mug ‘round this place.” 

They get comfortable in a booth, tucked back in the far corner -- it’s where Harry does his grading. Y/N had brought a coat, big and puffy, but she still shivered every so often with a remnant chill; Harry thought she looked quite cute, but scolded himself for it. They talk with an ease that Harry has with very few people -- about the exam Monday, about her paper she had recently turned in (Harry praised her for it like he’d been wanting to the past week), before it took a turn from the mundane and into a more creative light. Harry isn’t sure how they got on the discussion of authors that they like to read, but they delved into a long winded talk about those whose words enraptured them. He found that Y/N enjoys the likes of Ryu Murakami and his horror books while Harry tended to dabble in Dean Koontz mysteries. They found a mutual liking in some of Stephen King’s more eccentric books, to which Y/N had told him (almost too casually) that she had a signed copy of Salem’s Lot. 

And then they begin discussing decorations for some reason or another, leading Harry to telling her that he had bamboo wall sconces and a rainwater fountain carved out of marble stone that patters gently throughout the night, sound through all rooms of his flat. Y/N had gasped, her eyes going wide when she asked for pictures and looking utterly dejected when he revealed that he had none, “I love that kind of stuff! How far away do you live, can I come see it?” 

The thing is, Harry should have declined, but he saw no harm in showing her. It wasn’t like he was leading her to a sex den or his bedroom even -- she was just intrigued by his lighting and fountain, and he didn’t live all too far away either.

So they pay their tab after they finish off the fries and shakes, he teases Y/N about her whipped cream mustache playfully before sliding her napkins only to watch her lull her tongue over her upper lip. Harry pays for their Uber there, leads her to the seventh floor of the building, and lets his ego be stroked by how enamoured she is by his choice in lighting and table top decor. Harry doesn’t invite a lot of people and rarely does anyone but him see the inside of his flat, so it was nice to be told how lovely it was. He sure thought so as well, but he figured he was a little biased in the decision. It was cozy without feeling cramped; in his living room he had two bookshelves filled to the brim on either side of a fake fireplace unit built into the wall. The couches he had chosen were large, equipped with a chaise and an ottaman that if puzzled together just correctly could for a makeshift bed of the plushiest, cushions he could have chosen. The wall sconces emit a soft, warm yellow from their bulbs that both brightens and dims but he normally keeps it on the setting just in the middle. 

Y/N marvels, looking up and around with sweet widened eyes and her glossy mouth having fallen agape, “It’s gorgeous,” she trailed her fingers gently against the stone fountain, letting her fingertips get wet with the water, “And relaxing -- wow, you might have a future in interior design if you wanted one.” 

Harry snorted, leaning on his shoulder against his bookshelf as he watched her flop down onto his couch, smiling toothly at him, and he hates how perfect she fits in the scene. How, now when Harry is in his living room, he won’t be able to not imagine her placed on his couch, “D’ya want anything? A water?” He watched as her eyes fluttered shut and his heart lurched, “A blanket?” 

She squints one eye open, still smiling, as the fabric of her coat shifts against itself and ruffles soundly, “You’d let me spend the night?”

Against his better judgement, he nods, “I don’t see any point in sending you back out in the cold, especially inebriated. I’ll set you up on my couch and you can sleep, yeah?” 

Y/N nods in response, beginning to wiggle out of her coat and toe her shoes off to make herself comfortable while Harry went to his hall closet for a blanket and pillow. It was stupid -- he should just send her home like he had intended, but he felt bad to. From what she had explained to him, her flat was about a twenty minute drive and the thought of her being in a car with a stranger for that long, while as tipsy as she had been, didn’t sit with him well. Besides, it wasn’t as if they were sharing a bed. He would be a small set of stairs and a hallway away from her -- he might as well have built a moat leading to his room. 

When he returns to the living room, Y/N has her legs stretched out on the couch and her head propped on the couch pillow, eyes trained on the TV. He had left it on before he went out, so a low murmur of House Hunters: International was playing through the speakers. She looked over to him as he held out the pillow and raised her head for him to stuff it beneath her, and began to fan out the cover for her. “Do you want sweatpants to sleep in or something?” 

She shook her head, “I would take ‘em off in the middle of the night anyway,” Harry feels his breathing leave him, “Thank you Dr. Styles -- I was really worried that you hated me.” 

“How could I ever hate you?” He repeated his phrase from earlier that night, and without thinking, he brushed the hair from her forehead, where a strand had been threatening to slip into her eye, “Get some rest, will you? Holler if you need anything.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t crawl into bed with you or anything.” She teased, her eyes fluttering shut and her mouth in a soft smile. 

As Harry makes his way to his bedroom, discarding his club clothes and forgoing his nightly routine to slap face first into his pillow, he realizes something dire. 

He wanted her to crawl into his bed desperately.