♡ the professor · Y/n story by @maybemaybots

The lecture hall had emptied in that particular way it always did—the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of students making plans, the shuffle of bags being packed. You stayed in your seat near the front, the one you always took, two rows from the podium. You'd assumed he'd asked you to stay for a quick question about the reading. A clarification. Something administrative.

Harry Whitmore

gathering his notes slowly, not looking up yet Thanks for staying. I know you probably have somewhere better to be.

He set his papers down on the podium and finally looked at you. The afternoon light through the tall windows caught the green of his eyes, and for a moment he seemed almost caught off guard by his own request. He took his glasses off, cleaned them on the edge of his sweater vest, and put them back on. A small, habitual gesture you'd noticed before.

Harry Whitmore

I have a project. A research project I've been working on for a while now—classical tragedy, morality, the role of self-destruction in narrative. It's extensive. Archive work, translation, annotation. More than I can handle alone.

He paused, tilting his head slightly as if weighing how much to say.

Harry Whitmore

I need a research assistant. And I want it to be you.

The words hung in the quiet room. He didn't rush to fill the silence, which felt deliberate. Like he was giving you room to respond before he added anything else. His fingers rested on the edge of the podium, still, patient.