John Price x Reader | 18+
Every day is a drag. The same old routine slowly losing it's charm—and then, almost like it was planned, it happens.
fem!reader, professor!price, seasonal affective disorder, gentle manipulation (implied), older man/younger woman, dubious morality, selective competence, infantilizing terms of endearment
The sun doesn’t rise as early anymore. It sinks faster, too—like the world is rushing through the days without you. You can no longer keep up. Some mornings, you don’t even know why you bother rolling out of bed for class. Your legs stay tangled in sheets so cold they feel damp. Early dawn filters in blue through the blinds. Your alarm cuts through the silence, shrill and insistent. Even buried beneath a mountain of blankets, you never feel warm enough.
You slide an arm out from beneath your covers and silence the phone with a tap. The quiet rushes back in and you tuck your arm quickly to your chest.
The heating system’s been broken for days now throughout the complex. You set it to seventy-four on the dial, but it still reads sixty-eight across the screen. Several complaints arose—you even tried reaching out—which says a lot, because you don’t like asking for help. You’ve come to learn that your landlord is unreliable. You just have to tough it out. Layer up on sweaters and socks, trying to combat a bone-deep chill that never pacifies.
You feel it slowly starting. A depression that settles in your gut, making itself at home before the leaves have even fallen off their trees. Before the sun begins to withdraw its warmth. Before the purple edges of dusk start to creep into the sky—when before it would have still been light out. When you start to eat dinner with the curtains drawn.
You just need something to look forward to. Something that gives you purpose and sheds a light over the early morning grey that follows you throughout the week.
And then, almost like it was planned, it happens.
You see him on the bus on Monday, still blinking the sleep out of your eyes as you clamber past the open doors. You plop down on the lower level where the seats face each other and you can watch the world pass by through the wide open windows. You don’t care if the contents in your bookbag get squished between your back and the seat. The world is just a haze of motion and stale air, the faint hiss of brakes, the hum of the engine beneath your feet.
You readjust your headphones and reach for your phone, thumb poised and ready to skip to a better song, when you spot him sitting near the back. Broad shoulders taking up space, head tipped back to lean against the window.
Just the sight of him makes your heart give a startled flutter.
His eyes are closed, and your eyes can’t help following the scruff that spreads across his strong jaw, running down his neck. His throat works against the stretch as he swallows, but he makes no move to sit upright. The floor rumbles beneath your feet, and you lurch when the bus hits a deep pothole.
He barely reacts, just shifts in his seat like it was a minor inconvenience, peeking an eye open to make sure his arm is still slung across his work bag. He relaxes again, legs spread in an easy sprawl. The suit he’s wearing does terrible things to your self-control. His slacks hug a pair of powerful thighs, neatly polished dress shoes pointing outwards.
You can’t help the fact that your eyes are drawn to his lap. You gawk absentmindedly where the fabric bunches indecently around his crotch. He’s oblivious to you. Doesn’t even glance your way. Somehow, that feels worse than being caught. Like a rejection you weren’t prepared for. You want his attention. You want to be seen by him, if only for a heartbeat.
Your stop comes too soon.
Your gaze drifts unconsciously back to him—his forearms rest on his legs, hands hanging loose between his knees, thick fingers flexing once before settling again.
He’s all unstudied masculinity. Casual, relaxed, exuding a quiet, natural kind of presence that makes your mouth go dry. Makes you feel slightly ashamed at how badly you crave recognition from him. You make your way to the exit at the back, and just as you reach the doors, he opens his eyes.
That icy blue lazily drifts upward, and locks on you. Doesn’t let go until you turn away and step off the bus. And even then, when you’ve begun walking down the sidewalk and you dare a glance back, he’s still watching.
You hide in the bathroom before heading to class, an embarrassingly wide smile making your cheeks ache. It hasn’t left your face since you stepped off the bus. Your thoughts spin like wet leaves. Slapping against your skull, sticking, peeling off, and spinning again. Who is he? What was he doing on the bus? At what point did he board? Where was he going? Why have you never seen him before?
That’s all you think about the rest of the day. When you’re sitting in class, staring out the window instead of tuning in to the lecture. When you eat the lunch you packed while sitting on a park bench. When you mess with your hair in the restroom mirror, trying to look somewhat presentable. When you return to the bus stop and a prickling anticipation makes you feel jittery.
You could’ve assumed—you just chose to believe that things might go your way.
But he’s on the bus the next day, and the next, and the next. You miss his face on weekends when you rot in bed, the air cold again, heater useless, like nothing’s changed at all. And then that familiar dread for your early morning Monday class starts to stir in your belly when Sunday comes around. However, the fact that you’ll be able to see his face before class tempers your anxiety.
You begin putting more effort into your appearance. You start wearing makeup, styling your hair, carefully considering your outfits the night before. Every choice you make is intentional, but you’re not even sure if he notices.
You get on the bus a little later than usual one day.
The heater in your apartment was finally fixed, and you’d overslept, nestled deep beneath the warmth of your covers, trying to convince yourself not to go in at all. To stay in this cozy little safe haven. But you’re trying to be better about skipping, so your hair’s damp from a last-minute, sporadic shower, coat still unbuttoned, fingers stinging from the cold.
You ran, breath fogging, heart thudding, cold air whipping your face, just so the driver wouldn’t take off without you. You leap onto the bus, breathless and sniffling, huffing out a, “thank you” to the bus driver. You fumble with your cash, shoving it at the driver with shaky hands, bouncing on the balls of your feet while he thumbs through the change in his palm.
When he’s satisfied he gives you a nod and you make your way down the aisle. The doors squeal shut. You pull in deep breaths through your nose, trying to control the quick rise and fall of your chest.
He’s already there. Third seat from the back. He slouches only slightly today, the collar of his coat turned up.
You hesitate—barely a second—before the bus starts, forcing you to drop into the seat diagonal from him. Closer than you’ve ever dared. You can see the fine gray at his temples, the faint crows-feet bracketing the edges of his eyes, the solid shape of his hands resting on his knees. All blunt nails and thick knuckles. So at odds with his attire.
Your heart’s in your throat. You bite the skin of your lip and glance out the window past his head when he looks up. Your palms are sweaty, tongue dry. You reach up, swiping your finger along your upper lip and grimace when it comes away damp.
You wonder what he thinks when he looks at you. Maybe you should’ve sat near the front like usual.
The bus sways. You tip forward the slightest bit before grounding your feet and shoving yourself back. The whole ride drones on with the grind of the engine, the smell of oil, condensation dripping from the windows. The few other passengers stare into nothing.
As your stop nears, you shift towards the edge of your seat, preparing to stand. Maybe you’re too nervous, maybe you realize you actually don’t want to be perceived because you’re just not feeling your best and you want off as quickly as possible, but you get up.
Then the bus driver slams on the brakes. You nearly topple into the aisle, grabbing the nearest pole—the same one he’s holding—to save yourself. The force of the bus throws you straight into him. Your face hits his chest, firm and unyielding. He doesn’t even budge. You struggle to right yourself, heat blooming up your neck, and he helps with a gentle nudge of his shoulder, one hand firm on the pole, the other gripping the straps to his workbag.
At this point, your hair might actually be steaming from how hot your face feels.
He glances down at you then. Really looks. For a moment, the world stills. His steady eyes, impossibly blue, peer deep into yours, like he can gauge your state of being just by looking at you. Like he can see all the private thoughts written within. You can’t even meet them. Your limbs feel shaky from mortification.
You manage a quiet, “Sorry,” towards the floor, voice half-drowned in the growl of the engine.
He gives a small, polite smile—not pitying, but it’s the kind that leans more teasing. Amused.
“S’alright,” he tells you, and the deep rasp of his voice nearly makes you swoon. “You okay, kiddo?”
And you think, oh no. Because now that he’s spoken to you, you’ll never be able to pretend he’s just another stranger again.
You nod, feeling light-headed, and peel away, heading for the exit, mouth suddenly numb. You can feel him behind you as you step off the bus, making your way towards campus. You suddenly forget how to walk, how to look right, and you begin to think too hard about how to place your feet. You wonder why he gets off at this stop today. He never does, at least not when you've been on the bus. His presence continues to trail you down the sidewalk, and you suddenly start to convince yourself that it's because he's following you. Until his footsteps veer away in another direction.
You don’t dare look back. You’re terrified he’ll still be watching if you do.
You start looking at him differently to the point that the rides begin to blur together. Now that you’ve seen the way he moves—heard his voice. You start to let your mind wander.
He’s always somewhere mid-bus—never buried in his phone, never asleep. He reads the way men ought to: a book within his big palm, his pinky and thumb overextending the weakened spine. You work down a heavy swallow as he turns the pages. Sometimes it's a small notepad. He scribbles down a quick note before tucking it away in his breast pocket. Sometimes it's nothing at all, just watching the world slide by through fogged glass.
When older women climb aboard, he’s already halfway out of his seat before they can ask. A quiet Here you go, love, in that gravelly voice of his. Strong hands gathering a frail forearm to help ease them down. Then he stands the rest of the way, one hand braced on the overhead bar, coat hanging open, eyes taking in everything. He's a big man, his presence commanding.
He’s polite, but not too soft. He’s direct and leads with a firm hand. You like that about him.
There’s a steadiness to him that draws your attention again and again. And maybe he knows it, because once or twice—when you’re sure you’re being subtle—his gaze flicks up, as if he can sense you, meets your shifty eyes in the reflection of the window where you secretly watch him, and one corner of his mouth turns. Not a smile, exactly. More like a small, knowing hmm.
You gawk down at your lap the rest of the bus ride. Nape prickling where you can feel his eyes roam.
Soon enough, it becomes a game you didn’t agree to play. You look, he catches you. Sometimes he tips his chin in a wordless hello, or lifts two fingers from his coffee cup in a lazy salute. You start counting the stops differently now. Start seeing how close you can sit without giving yourself away.
You have a feeling he already knows though.
Friday evening, you find yourself stuck on campus long after the sky’s gone dark.
You hate lingering this late, mostly because it means paying for another ride back. But your printer’s been down for weeks, and the student center was the only place nearby where you could use one. What should’ve taken five minutes stretched into an hour—fumbling with settings, poking random buttons—before you realized all it needed was your student ID.
Silly little mistake. You decide to treat yourself to make up for your woes.
The convenience store near campus hums under harsh fluorescent lights. It’s nearly empty, the kind of place where sound feels swallowed. Where the muted atmosphere makes it feel like pressure’s building behind your ears. You’re crouched in front of the snack aisle, a water bottle tucked in the crook of your elbow, scanning the bottom shelf for instant noodles, when a deep voice breaks the quiet.
“I’d go for the orange one. Pink’s a lot hotter.”
You straighten so fast you nearly drop your bottle.
He’s standing at the end of the aisle, sleeves rolled, a paper bag tucked under one arm. Out of the suit, he looks rugged—less polished, more real. His frame fills out a denim button up, and your eyes flit straight towards his bared forearms.
It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about the ramen packaging that you were assessing just moments before.
You push out a steady breath, but trip over your words nonetheless. “Oh yeah—well, I uh… was actually trying to decide. But I like spicy so…”
You snatch up the pink pack instead. When you’re standing upright, he looks at you for a moment. Eyes creasing as he slowly takes in your appearance.
“You're the girl from the bus,” he says, a wry smile lighting his features. “You study over at the university downtown?”
“Just a guess, “ he tilts his head. “Always got on a backpack.”
Your laugh is a little breathless. You don’t think it’s that unprovoked, considering the attractive man you watch and obsess over on the bus is talking to you right now—basically admitting that he’s noticed you.
Your eyes flick to the floor. “Well, that’s a little embarrassing.”
“Nothin’ to be embarrassed about. I teach there, kids rushin’ everywhere all the time.” He tilts his head, amused, that dimple creasing his cheek. “Thought I recognized the lanyard last time you got off.”
You stare, eyes wide, half-smiling because the words barely register and you don’t know what else to do. Your mouth opens then closes.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” His tone softens, voice growing a tad deeper, almost teasing. “You jus’ look like you’re runnin’ late half the time. Always outta breath.”
It’s almost condescending, the way he says it—gentle, indulgent, like he’s humoring a student. Which you are, but there’s something else beneath it. A hint that doesn’t feel academic at all.
You mumble something about the cold weather and homework assignments, and edge toward the register, heart fluttering. He follows at an easy distance, tossing a pack of mints onto the counter beside your drink. He asks for a pack of cigarettes while you’re pawing at the back pockets of your jeans and still manages to pay for you before your fingers even touch the cold, synthetic leather of your wallet.
Outside, the air bites. The street’s gone mostly quiet, the sound of your footsteps shallow on the pavement. You look up at him at that moment, arms folding protectively across your chest.
“You didn’t have to pay for me,” you say, half protest, half thank you.
“You gotta job?” he pokes.
You shake your head. “Not yet. But I got accepted for a paid internship this summer.”
It’s proud, a little hopeful, a soft smile tipping the edges of your lips, chest puffed. You wait for him to meet you there—but he only chuckles down at you, like you’re just a silly child. “Well, I just paid for you, and you’re jobless in the meantime.”
You bristle at his words. Not at all what you were expecting.
He shrugs, “You’re welcome, kid.”
You push out a defeated breath and the cool air turns it visible. You watch as it curls away, disappearing into the atmosphere before you reluctantly mutter, “Thanks. I guess.”
You part ways. He asks for your email, and you give it to him. After all, it’s not like he’s asking for your socials. So you see no problem. He even leaves you with a slip of paper. It has his name: John, and the location of the academic building that his office is in along with the floor and room number. In case you have any questions… or feel like you need a little guidance.
You stand there a moment longer, the chill sinking through your coat. The tall, thin streetlamp hums overhead. It hits you then, slow and dizzying, that the man you’ve spent weeks ogling from your seat on the bus just stepped neatly out of your wandering thoughts and into your life.
