#asiy

It was a stand-off for a second, a dimple appeared on her cheek and she sipped her cocktail, waiting to see if you’d say anything.

“What?”

“...Are you avoiding him?”

You rolled your eyes. Max and Naomi were stuck at their internships late, and you should have known that a night alone with Sophie would include an interrogation complete with suspicious glances and nosy questions.

The setting? Your usual booth at O’Halloran’s.

“No, I’m not avoiding him.”

“That’s the second time he’s texted you and you won’t even open it.”

“I’m with you,” you brought your drink up and slurped it through the straw. “I’m being polite.”

“Fuck being polite--I want the details.”

“There’s no update, no new details” you confessed. 

Her eyebrows arched, “none?”

You shrugged. “I think he’s taking a step back. Because of graduation.”

Now her eyebrows inverted, furrowed across her forehead when her nose crinkled in confusion. “Isn’t graduation the answer to all of your prayers? You can finally bone him without the guilt!”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” you blinked a few times. 

Sophie leaned back in the booth, apparently she didn’t agree with you and the look on her face made that clear. Instead of replying to your remark, she kept her eyes on you for a second. 

“What’s the roadblock for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why won’t you just tell him you’re into him?”

You sighed, partially embarrassed that it was that obvious, but also relieved that it wasn’t a secret you had to protect…at least not with Sophie.

“Because that wasn’t supposed to happen--this was just supposed to be some fun and casual thing and I’m the one who fucked it up by catching feelings,” you rolled your eyes at yourself, groaned a little when Sophie smiled behind the rim of her drink.

“You didn’t fuck it up,” she assured. You forgot how good Sophie was at calming your nerves…sometimes. “And in the words of the hottest woman on the planet Selena Gomez, the heart wants what it wants.”

Right, and there was that charming sense of humor. She wiggled her eyebrows at you, obviously trying to get a laugh and help you fucking chill. 

You smiled, let your shoulder slump a little when you took another sip. “Well, feelings only work if it’s reciprocal.” 

“How do you know it’s not?”

“He’s my advisor, our professor--” you nodded at his titles, how on earth was she not understanding this?

“Who’s slept over your house, taken you out to eat…licked your pussy--”

“Okay,” you held a hand up quickly to cut her off, stifling a quick laugh at her vulgarity. “Doesn’t negate his actual role in my life.”

“So you’re just gonna let this pass you by?” Sophie’s eyes narrowed now, her tone more serious when you let your eyes fall back to your phone. A reminder buzzed--two iMessages!!

“I don’t know. I mean, when am I supposed to tell him? And what do I do if he says he doesn’t feel the same?”

She took the last sip of her drink. “Well, we’re literally about to go on a trip to Europe with him and that feels like a really romantic experience,” she said all of this like it was obvious, like you were an idiot for not realizing the way the universe was setting you up for a slam dunk.

“And if he isn’t on the same page,” she shrugged, “you come home and lick your wounds and you only have to see him at work.”

“Another reason I shouldn’t do this,” you pointed a finger at her. 

“False,” she pointed her finger right back at you. “Another reason you need to be honest and mature and--” she cut herself off, surprised by her own depth and sincerity. “Jesus,” she made a face. “When did I turn into some lesbian Oprah?”

You laughed, she slid out of the booth and went to fetch another round. You picked up your phone when she was far enough away. 

Jason Sudeikis (7:12pm): Found this in my laundry, assuming it’s yours?

A picture right below his message, the black bra you were sure had gotten lost at the wash and fold down the block. You felt your lips pull into a smile at his implication, whose else would it be? 

You didn’t reply. Instead, you sat with the realization that Sophie was right. 

But at least you didn’t have to tell her that.

Surprisingly, she left you alone the week leading up to the trip. You went with her to campus to pick up your caps and gowns, Naomi was an anxious mess as she prepared to showcase her work, and Max was just as panicked about packing as he’d been the year before. 

But this time you all knew what to expect. The flights, the hotel, the coastal city and the charm of sipping fruity cocktails in the evening glow. Which is exactly what you did on your first night there.

“Okay,” Max said once he’d successfully captured the boomerang of your clinking glasses. He flipped his sunglasses back down and leaned back in his chair, a long sip when he looked around the circle. “We’re here, we actually did it.”

Cannes was bustling with people in town for the festival. The beaches were packed and the streets echoed with excitement and allure.

“Three long years later,” Sophie smiled. “Hard to believe, sort of.”

“Hard to believe Naomi’s going to be famous after this weekend,” you eyed her with a smile. She spent most of the plane ride over sleeping, claimed that any time she spent awake now was simply filled with anticipation and anxiety a healthy dose of holy fucking shit. 

You could relate.

Naomi clutched a hand to her heart and grinned. “Thanks for coming, you guys. It means a lot, really.”

“Thanks for the excuse to come back! I’ll drink cocktails with you three anywhere, but this place rocks.” Max laughed. 

“Okay,” Sophie’s glass floated in the air when she let her eyes scan the three of you. “What's our must do list this weekend?”

“Must do?” Naomi asked, you were glad you weren’t the only one confused.

Sophie straightened up to explain. “The stuff we absolutely have to do here before we leave. Obviously Friday night,” she shrugged, the night of the screening. 

“Can we please do a bougie dinner on Saturday or Sunday?” Max pouted. “I didn’t eat enough when we were here last year.”

“Yes,” Sophie pointed at him in agreement. “For sure.”

“Let’s do Sunday, though.”

And just like that, three heads swiveled towards you. You sipped your drink and blinked behind your sunglasses. “What?”

Naomi smirked. “Do you have plans for Saturday night?”

“Potentially,” you shrugged. “I don’t know what, but—“

“You don’t know what?” Max’s face lit up. “It’s a surprise?!”

“Okay,” you tried to backtrack, voice automatically quiet. “Calm down. He texted me this morning and said keep Saturday night free if I can. So, here I am. Keeping Saturday free.”

You nodded slowly to make sure they understood. This wasn’t a big deal. You were just doing what you were told. 

“And you don’t know why?” Max clarified.

“No.”

“Wow,” Sophie nodded. “A little romantic rendezvous in the South of France!”

“Or it’s just us having dinner or something—“

“Even you can’t be dumb enough to think that,” Max challenged, eyes narrowed when the corner of his lips twitched into a smirk.

You fought the smile on your face for three whole seconds, but when Naomi caught your eye you were done for.

“I don’t know, okay? I’m not sure what he wants or where things are heading and I am trying to not panic.”

They all nodded sympathetically. 

“But this trip is not about my clandestine melodrama,” you reminded.

Sophie ignored this. “Are you going to talk to him?”

You let out a huff, slightly bothered that she brought it up in front of Max and Naomi, but also uncomfortable in the spotlight. “I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Maybe. Let’s see what happens on Saturday and I’ll consider it.”

Apparently that was good enough for her. She looked back at Max and Naomi and took other requests for weekend plans: drinks at a rooftop bar near the hotel, a morning at the beach and plenty of yummy glasses of rosé and whatever other alcohol tickled your fancy. 

By midnight you were all jet-lagged enough to be face down in pillows, Sophie’s snoring was was enough to interrupt your slumber on a few occasions and sharing a bed with Max didn’t make for a restful night either. Oh well.

May 11th, 2019

Swanky music played in the hotel bar, you clinked a glass of champagne against Naomi’s when Sophie said a few words. The greatest of the great, nobody deserves it more. 

You hadn’t seen him yet. You’d taken the elevator down and saw a few other students that milled about, ordered glasses of prosecco this time. Max was desperate for a change.

A dress much nicer than last year, one you could afford with your upcoming NBC paychecks. Marina approached after saying hi to some NYU kids you recognized from campus. She smiled when she hugged Max in greeting but when she saw you, she offered a look that was hard to read. 

“Fancy seeing you all here!”

“We couldn’t miss Naomi’s big moment,” Sophie smiled, pushing her glass against Marina’s when she humble-bragged for your friend. 

Marina grinned, “yes--I’ve heard, a huge accomplishment, Naomi, you should be very proud.”

“I’m definitely trying to soak it all in,” she nodded. “Trying to not throw up.”

“Completely understandable,” Marina reassured with an apologetic smile. “But I hope you do plenty of celebrating, this is an important week for you!”

“We’re forcing the celebration,” you informed. “Dragging her out if we need to.”

“Cheers to that,” Max pushed his glass into the circle once more before taking a playful swig. 

You hadn’t seen Marina much this year, a few times on campus or in the Starbucks on Broadway. You’d catch up with her quickly, tell her about your amazing experiences at NBC or catch her up on your latest projects and scripts. 

She was excited to hear about what the rest of your friends had been up to this year, interrupted eventually when Jason made his way over. 

You hadn’t spotted him, caught off guard by the scent of his cologne: familiar and exciting all at once. 

A chorus of greetings when his hand lingered for a moment too long on your lower back, you swiped him off and caught his eye for a second when he smirked. 

He smiled at your friend. “Naomi--how are you holding up? Feelin’ alright?”

She looked at him quickly, you wondered how many times she’d be asked before she’d explode. 

“Now that I’m starting to feel the alcohol I’m a little better,” she confessed, a smile when she looked at you. 

It felt strange, now, to know they were in on the secret: the knowing look in Naomi’s eyes and smile, the way Sophie greeted him when he joined the group like an old pal. 

The boundary between your group and his felt blurry after all these years. Like it melted somewhere along the lines and now there were times like these when there almost wasn’t separation at all.

And here, in France and on this trip with only nine days standing between you and a Master’s degree, the universe seemed to be tempting you. 

So close and yet so far.

Will was only a few seconds behind, he laughed with Max about your return trip, hugged you when the room thinned out as people started heading towards the theater. You tucked your phone in your clutch, walked with them all along the glowing sidewalks, made your way inside the event space and took in the ambience: fancy perfumes and fancier people. 

Another round of drinks before the lights dimmed. Somehow you ended up sitting beside him and Naomi squeezed Sophie’s hand the whole time. 

Her film was met with a thunderous applause and a standing ovation by your row only--which probably embarrassed her a bit but you were too proud to care. You had another celebratory drink with her and mingled with the other audience members in your area. 

The lights flashed again when you snuck by the drink line, heading for your seat when he caught your wrist by the bar. 

“Hey, hey—hi, do you want a drink?”

You smiled up at him, “margarita—“

“On the rocks?”

You nodded, impressed he knew your order but also flattered he’d been paying attention. When he arrived a few minutes later with his hands full (and an old fashioned for himself), Max knocked his knee into yours.

“How thoughtful of him,” he let his brows dip in the cover of dimming lights.

You sipped your drink, fluttered your eyelashes at Max and watched on.

A few hours like that, and then you found a bar a few blocks over that had a corner booth in the back. A grumpy hostess handed over drink menus and Will cracked a joke about being terrible Americans. Naomi seemed to be a little less tightly wound, she slid in beside Marina and exhaled: thank fucking god that’s over. 

Sophie chatted with other students--first and second years--when she sipped a glass of wine, Max was too busy asking Will about the best and worst production companies in Hollywood. 

Which left you on the other side of Max, and on the other side of Max was Jason, who was boxed in by Marina and Naomi when he looked at you.

“Hey,” he nodded, a slight smirk when your eyes met. “I like the dress,” he quipped.

Poker face, you felt a slight twitch in your brow but didn’t let on. “Thanks.”

In front of everyone, casually. He knew what he was doing. 

“Might look better on the floor,” Jason said quietly, a shrug of his shoulder and a sip of his drink as if to remind you he didn’t have any skin in the game. 

Max peered over at him quickly, still engulfed in conversation with Will when Jason coughed a little and then cleared his throat. A quick mutter to Max--sorry--before he smirked in your direction again.

A close call, one that you washed down with another drink and more laughter. But you were surprised by the cool air outside the bar when your group spilled onto the street.

“It’s colder than I thought out here,” you commented, mostly to Sophie.

“It’s May in the South of France,” she rolled her eyes. “Means you didn’t drink enough,” she chided, heels clicking on the pavement when she turned around to make a silly face. 

The city was bustling with groups like yours, patrons and Prada bags as you meandered down the skinny sidewalks and back towards the hotel. 

“Do you want this?” Jason’s fingers tugged the lapel of his suit jacket--black and warm. 

“No no,” you shook your head quickly, dismissing his kindness. “I’m fine, it’s a short walk.”

The breeze off the ocean and the long-gone sun had let a chill settle over the city streets. You listened to Will and Marina bicker about Scorcese films, shivered a little when another gust came through.

Jason took off his jacket in one movement, handed it over to you without a word. Will’s eyes followed the motion and didn’t seem to think much of it. You draped his coat over your shoulders but kept listening. They joked and teased and for a moment you wondered what would happen if you reached for his hand. It was almost that easy.

You stayed behind in the hotel lobby, lingered by the bar when Sophie requested a night cap. Jesse and Will did too, Jason met your eyes when he admitted: Tired, jet-lagged, heading up now. 

Three minutes after the elevator doors closed behind him and after Sophie was sipping a sangria, you carried out your end of the bit. 

“Wow--well, I’m pretty tired too.”

Max and Jesse didn’t hear you, Sophie smirked at the yawn you threw in for good measure, an arm around your neck when she whispered in your ear: go get laid. 

So you read his text when the overhead arrow lit up, stepped inside and felt your heart thump like it had been doing for a year. 

Jason Sudeikis (12:02am): 849

It wasn’t hard to find, the same floor as last year and he opened the door and smiled. 

“Wow,” you stepped inside, looked around the room at the open balcony, the king-sized bed and formal sitting area to the left. “Good to know NYU shells out for the professors.”

“Oh--well, I upgraded, actually,” he shrugged, hands in his pockets as he also took in the sight of it. “I didn’t know if you’d be…staying…with me, at all.”

You smirked at him over your shoulder, “is that an invitation?”

“I mean I’d hope that sleeping in bed with me is more appealing than sleeping in bed with Max.”

“It is,” you laughed. “For sure. And Sophie snores.”

“Oh right,” he nodded, a smile when he remembered that piece of information from last year. 

Another few steps towards the balcony and out into the cool night air. The city was aglow with restaurant signs and street lamps, music floated up to his room and the yachts in the bay bounced over tiny waves. 

You watched him over your shoulder, he kept his eyes on yours as he made his way over, slow and intentional when he stepped outside to join you. 

“I hope your friends aren’t waiting up for you,” his lips curled.

“They’re not,” you rolled your eyes. 

He laughed, brought his arm around your waist when he pressed his mouth to yours. Out in the open, you turned towards him instinctively and tilted your chin up to kiss him. Deep enough but comfortable, you smiled when he pulled away.

“What?”

You let out an apologetic laugh. “I was just thinking that they’re probably smoking weed downstairs and will soon be opening whatever bottles they find in the minifridge.” 

His eyes widened a little at your confession. He nodded and smiled down at you. “That’s what was going through your head as I kissed you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Hm,” he nodded. “That’s problematic.”

“Why’s that?”

He took your wrist and brought you back into the room, explaining over his shoulder with a playful smile: “I brought you back here because I’ve grown particularly fond of kissing you, and having sex with you--”

You let your eyebrows furrow, egging him on with a challenging smirk. “You have?” 

“And I also enjoy when you’re so turned on by me that you can’t focus on anything else.”

“Feels a little narcissistic of you,” you commented. 

Inside now, he turned to face you and smiled when you kept his gaze. 

“No, actually, it’s quite selfless of me.”

You sat on the edge of his mattress, wondering how long you could do this before you tugged him down and top of you by the shirt collar. 

“Selfless?”

“Selfless,” he nodded, a step forward. 

Your hand reached out for his belt buckle, eager to progress towards skin and friction and heat. But he swatted you away and smirked. 

He brought his hand to your jaw and leaned down to kiss you, his suit jacket still on the chair where you’d left it. Maybe it had been the sight of you in his clothes, the way you wanted to slip your fingers between his on the sidewalk and the way your friends acted like all of this was normal. 

He liked the way you kissed him back, and eventually he nudged you onto your back and pulled your thighs down towards his face. You giggled when he tugged your panties to your ankles, felt your tummy tighten when he pressed kisses to the exposed skin. 

His tongue lapped at your center after he couldn’t resist you, a choreographed number of flicks and fingers when you started to make more noise. Your fingers grabbed onto his hair, desperate to feel his tongue inside of you at the edge of the bed. 

You pulled him up and worked at the buttons of his shirt, one by one until he tossed it to the floor and then stepped out of his pants. It was easier now, you noticed, to giggle and joke and tell him what you wanted and when. 

He unzipped your dress and let his eyes sweep over your figure, he grew beneath the fabric of his boxers and even more when your mouth wrapped around him. He watched with hungry eyes but decided that wasn’t enough, he wanted all of you. 

So you tugged him down like you knew you always would, let out a gasp when he pushed himself inside of you. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he sighed, a rhythm in his hips when you arched into him. 

“I would love,” you breathed, “to be fucked…hard.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

May 12th, 2019

His arm was draped over your waist when you woke up, sun filtered in through the curtain and you reached for your phone to see the time. 8:54am. Texts from the night before:

Max Prescott (1:35am): This bed is nice without you do not come back

Sophie Mendez (1:54am): Say hi to the PROFESSOR YOU’RE BANGING

Naomi Halter (1:55am): we love you have fun ignore the two assholes you stranded me with

Keep readingYou giggled quietly to yourself, felt the sheets rustle beside you when he opened his eyes.

“Morning,” he stretched, smiled a little when you clicked your phone shut and turned to face him, wondering if this would ever get old. 

“Hi,” you greeted him quietly.

“Don’t even think about asking me what we’re doing tonight,” he said with a sleepy laugh when he sat up in bed, a look in your direction that told you not to push it. He stretched and peered over his shoulder, like he knew you had a comeback. 

“I’m supposed to just go somewhere blindly with you?” As you said this he tood and walked over to the balcony in his boxers, hair messy from sleep and sex.

He turned to see you over his shoulder again, shrugged playfully: “Maybe I should get a blindfold.”

“No, no,” you backed off, lips twisting into a smile when he turned around. “I’ll be good, I swear.”

“Good,” he smirked, you could see the wheels turning in his head when he delivered his punch line. A few steps towards you when he spoke: “you’ve always been a rule follower. Some might say…a teacher’s pet.”

“I don’t have to go anywhere with you,” you reminded, a challenging look when you tugged the sheet to cover more skin.

He laughed, came and leaned forward to press a kiss to your mouth. It felt good. Warm. Normal to wake up beside him and normal to shower in his hotel room.

So after meeting up with your friends in the lobby for breakfast you walked around town, hoping they wouldn’t dig too hard for details or corner you in a boutique when you looked at bracelets. 

The questions didn’t come until the walk back, the cobblestone sidewalks were easier to navigate than their prying: is he taking you somewhere overnight? Has he said anything about graduation? 

You tried to play it off and ignore the ever present buzzing of your own questions, pricking and prodding as the clock ticked.

They sat on the bed in your joint hotel room and watched you try on outfits, Sophie pinched your ass before you blew an air kiss on exit, promising to give a full update upon your return. You could hear Max through the door once you walked down the hall and towards the elevator: She’s not coming back tonight.

Probably true. 

Three blocks away from the hotel and around a street corner he stood next to an old car. The shade from gothic buildings covered his side of the street, an evening glow hung over the city.

You let out a laugh when he twirled the keys around his finger but almost dropped them onto the pavement. “Ready?” He lifted his sunglasses.

“We need a car? Where are we going?”

“You have to get in first,” he shrugged, walking around to open the passenger side door for you to climb in. You took a few steps forward, eyed him suspiciously when he smiled. “Just trust me. It’s fine.”

“Sounds like what a kidnapper would say, but I’ll let it slide,” you teased.

“Oh relax,” he laughed, climbing in beside you after rounding the hood of the car. You couldn’t tell the make or the model, knew from the leather interior and the radio in the dash that it might have been as old as you were. “It’s supposed to be--” he cut himself off quickly, “cute, or something, I don’t know.”

You felt your eyebrows raise when he started the engine, watched the palm trees pass by when he made his way out of town. Cute? He wanted to do something cute for you? 

You bit your lip when he turned the radio on, then told you about the first time he came here--back in his early thirties--as the scenery shifted from bustling port to quaint country. 

You sang along and laughed when he butchered the words to an old Britney song and for a moment his hand found yours and stayed atop your lap, but a bump in the road or any sudden movement could shatter the moment around you.

He pulled up to another coastal village within the hour, promised that you’d enjoy the evening when he opened your door to another cobblestone sidewalk by the sea. 

“Dinner, nothing crazy,” he relented once he led you down the street and pointed at the fancy awning and script letters: La Baumette. “But since we can never really go out in New York I figured a tiny town in the South of France might be a bit more…private.”

“It’s beautiful,” you looked around, more palm trees and yachts that speckled the blue sea. “Hold on,” you said, reaching out to smack his chest. “Photo op!”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, smiled when he outstretched his hand.

“Oh come on,” you teased, a few steps over towards the railing when you pulled your phone out of your purse. “Enlighten me.”

He came over, slipped an arm around your waist and took the phone right out of your hand. He pressed his face against yours and smiled. He took two, handed it back to you and inspected them over your shoulder. 

“A decent photo,” he quipped, a smile down at you when you looked up at him. 

The words almost crept up your throat and over your tongue, slipping out into the orange sky when a man in a suit appeared with menus and gestured for both of you to follow. 

I could spend every day doing things like this with you. 

So you followed him over to a restaurant with oceanside seating, sipped prosecco and hoped that eventually, your heart would stop pounding and you’d be able to muster up the courage to ask what stood on the other side of your degree.

You ordered chicken and he got a risotto dish, it was easy to laugh about Will’s close call getting to the airport for the flight over, easy to talk like everything was about this was normal. 

He kissed you on the sidewalk and licked from your gelato cone without permission and you knew. You were running out of time. 

But the thought of bringing it all up and asking for some kind of something from him threatened to burst the bubble of an otherwise perfect evening, perhaps the best night you’d had with him, ever.

One without secrecy and uncertainty and one that, you realized, you could have stayed in forever. 

But when you got back to the hotel reality set in. Sophie had agreed to be your cover--a fancy dinner for two best gal pals in case you were caught in the lobby and got suspicious glances. But the other faculty were nowhere to be found, too early for a nightcap at the bar. 

“Jason!”

You heard his name from over your shoulder, you both spun and his brows arched at the sight: three guys his age in suits and ties and one of them was Will. Your stomach dropped.

“Hey, hi!” Jason said, a look down at you before he took a few steps over. Surprised but he hugged them, you stood awkwardly off to the side and wondered how much Will knew when he offered a tight-lipped smile in your direction. “I had no idea you guys were gonna be here this year--how are you? Holy shit! How’s Chicago?”

Right. Friends from a former life or former job and you were reduced to the 20-something who was waiting for validation and reassurance from the older guy you were sleeping with. Fuck.

They fell into conversation and you felt Will’s eyes on you. No introduction, no gesture in your direction, my student, one of my writers, nothing. You offered a tiny smile and cut in. 

“Sorry--uh--Jason, nice to bump into you on the sidewalk,” a wave to Will despite the tension that now hung in the lobby. “Have a good night.”

You turned and felt their eyes on you, anger in your chest when you realized that you’d probably be stuck on the sidelines, like that, forever. Eighteen steps to the elevator and you pressed the button to ascend with a clenched jaw. 

“Hey, hey--what was that?” He was behind you now, his hand around your wrist when the doors opened.

“Nothing, I’m good,” you shook out of his hold and stepped inside, forced a smile that he didn’t believe. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Y/N,” he made a face, looked over his shoulder, and then stepped inside. “What’s happening right now?”

The doors slid shut, only the two of you inside when you selected his floor. You had no clue where your friends were—hadn’t even seen Sophie in the lobby—and whatever conversation was about to unfold didn’t seem like one they’d want to walk in on.

“Nothing, Jason--okay? You can go hang out with Will and those guys, I’ll just get my stuff from your room and go.”

“Those guys are grad school friends,” he informed, “and if I did something wrong I’m gonna need you to tell me because I have no idea how we went from having a great day to this.” He motioned around the elevator as it slowed to a stop, as if your emotions had spilled onto the floor and were a mess he needed to clean up.

You stepped out and turned down the hall towards his room. You talked over your shoulder, “that was awkward for me--I was just standing there. Will saw us come in, and I have no idea what he knows, you didn’t even introduce me to them at all.”

He kept up behind you, pulled his keycard from his wallet when you approached the door to his room. He swiped, pushed it open and let you in. “Okay--sorry, yeah, I was thrown off by seeing them--” 

Your clothes were on the coffee table, your toothbrush in the bathroom. Maybe it was the impending giant change in your life or the three glasses of prosecco you had with dinner, but either way, the emotion pushed itself into your eyes.

“I know,” you turned around quickly. The door latched shut behind him, he stared at you with lips parted, like he could tell that this might be the breaking point. “But after the day we had today and sleeping with you for nearly a year and playing this fucking game--or whatever it is that we’re doing!--it sucks to not even be introduced at all.”

He was defensive now, forehead wrinkled when he stammered. “Well I’m sorry, we can go back down and I’ll tell them--”

“No!” You groaned, letting your hands slap against your side as you walked further into the room. Time to get your shit and go.  “I can’t do the charade anymore, okay? I can’t sit around and pretend I’m not going home with you or that this isn’t--” a long pause when you sighed, “something.”

“What am I supposed to do, Y/N? Walk in and introduce you and say, hey everyone, this is my student I’ve been fucking for almost a year?”

The frustration in his voice was clear, like he couldn’t even fathom why this was so hard for you to understand. Sure--he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t expose you and your bad choices and he certainly couldn’t expose himself, but the same question tugged at your heart and your thoughts when you looked up at him. He sighed again, like he had to state the obvious to keep both of you in reality. “We’re not a couple.”

No shit. But it only made you more angry.

“Even though the other pillows on my bed smell like you? And the fact that you took care of me after my birthday and you keep those chips in your stupid kitchen because you know I like them?”

He was quiet now, the words you finally spit out landed at his feet with a thud. A shrug of his shoulders when he shook his head and looked around the room. 

“We can’t, Y/N--it’s not--” he sighed, cutting himself off when he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can’t fuck this core faculty thing up.”

You hated the way your eyes were watering, hated the knot in your stomach when his words made it clear: he was choosing his job over you. 

But what hurt worse than the look on his face when he tried to let you down gently was the voice in your own head that started screaming: I told you so, I told you so, I told you so. 

Of course he had to choose his job over you. You were just stupid enough to be hurt by it. 

“Yeah, no--I get it,” you shrugged, a few steps towards the door when you put words in his mouth. “It’s just sex and it’s just fun--”

“That’s not what I said.”

“--and you can’t risk your job and it’s better we just end all of this now.”

He knew you were being flippant, knew that there was anger laced in every word you said as you walked over to the door. “So you’re leaving because I didn’t introduce you to those guys downstairs?”

“No,” you said with a shake of your head, disappointed that he thought this was more petty than it was. “I’m leaving because I don’t want to be your secret anymore.”

You didn’t give him a chance to reply. You tugged the handle and pushed the door open into the hallway, partially because you didn’t feel like crying in front of him but also because the air in his room felt stiff and hot and like it’d wrap around your throat and choke you any second. 

You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t admit that you were stupid enough to fall for him and you certainly couldn’t admit it if he was going to look at you like that: like the kid he’d accidentally led on for almost 365 days. 

Bitter and alone and even more emotional thanks to the prosecco. You wiped your eyes when the doors to the elevator parted on his floor, another cruel joke from the universe when Marina--who now looked concerned at the sight of you--blinked a few times. 

“Hi,” you said shakily, wiped under your eyes to hide the evidence. “Sorry--I’m okay, just tired.”

“That feels…like a load of shit,” she laughed a little, stepped off and crossed her arms. The hallway was quiet, you were quiet, unsure what to say. When you didn’t speak, Marina shrugged. “Wanna go down to the bar and get a drink?”

So you followed her back into the elevator, laughed when she joked about being a tourist with a fanny pack. You hung your purse on a stool at the bar, climbed up and eyed the menu when she slid it over. 

She scanned over the cocktail list and didn’t make eye contact, her offer was casual: “Wanna talk?”

“I just had a bad night,” you dismissed, hoping that in the morning those words would feel more true. 

You wondered what he was doing upstairs. Sitting on his bed like he had been when you left? Head in his hands? Exasperated and confused just like you?

She looked over at you now, eyebrows arched on her forehead. “Because of a man?”

You nodded. That felt safe to admit. 

“Professor Sudeikis?”

You looked up at her quickly, eyes wide and lips parted. “No--” you shook your head. 

She smiled, looked back down at the drink list and shrugged. “Your secret’s safe with me--I mean, you know, if it is because of him.”

You were silent, stomach in a knot and desperately trying to figure out what to say. I would never, he would never, it’s not like that. 

But the way she smiled when she looked at you again brought a wave of relief. It didn’t feel judgmental, didn’t feel like she was disapproving or ready to call Dean Vasquez and rat you out. Instead, she waited for a moment, curiosity in her eyes before the bartender materialized in front of you. You both ordered: a gin and tonic for her and more prosecco for you, so much for celebrating. A deep breath when you turned to face her. 

“How do you know?”

“Well--I don’t,” she said honestly, a little bit of a laugh. “Instinct, gut feeling, I guess.”

“I know it’s wrong,” you nodded quickly, figuring it was best to get out in front of it. “Unethical and immoral and fucked up.”

She looked surprised at the last one. “Then why’s it happening?”

You swallowed, dropped her gaze and inspected the polish in your nails. A single shrug. “Because I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she laughed. “I mean, sleeping with your professor might not be the greatest decision you’ve ever made but…it takes two to tango.”

You nodded, already wondering if you’d said too much. “Please don’t say anything, Marina--I know it’s fucked up and I know it’s wrong but it’s done now. It’s definitely finished.”

You hoped those were good enough reasons. All of that paired with the fact that you knew Marina liked you and you knew she thought you were a great filmmaker. 

She thought on this for a second, nodded to herself as she thought it over. “You’re also graduating in, like, a week. After that you can sleep with whoever you want.”

“I don’t think he even wants to speak to me right now, so--”

“He’s an idiot,” she said suddenly, a roll of her eyes when she put her elbows on the bar. 

“What do you mean?”

A pause before she answered, like she didn’t know how to say it. “I figured that there might be something between the two of you,” she lowered her voice. “I mean, you guys are ridiculously flirty and even I’ve seen it.”

You shrunk at this. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You knew it was a bad idea from the start.

“But I didn’t know it was actually happening. If he’s already slept with you and is ending it now two weeks before you graduate because of a fight or disagreement or something, he’s stupid.”

You laughed a little, thankful for her solidarity despite the messy situation.

“I think we let it go on too long,” you said honestly. “Once or twice might have been fun, but, I don’t know. Now it’s messy and the lines are blurred and--” you cut yourself off. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be venting to you.”

The corner of her mouth pulled up, the bartender appeared and placed your drinks on napkins. “Now it’s messy and the lines are blurred?”

Okay, so you actually could talk to her about it. 

“I mean, maybe not now,” you laughed. “It’s been messy.”

“Well,” she lifted her drink and let it bump against yours. “If you’d like to share, what made tonight end in tears?”

You watched as she took a sip, thought about how to string the words together to make yourself sound less pathetic. 

“I--uh--kind of casually implied that it might be nice…if it were more than just…casual.”

She nodded along.

“But that was not received well,” you admitted.

“Ah,” Marina nodded. 

“And I get it,” you said now, apparently the flood gates had opened and you were ready to talk it through. “He’s got the whole core faculty thing next year and obviously it’s not a good look.”

“Not exactly,” she agreed. A beat when you let out a sigh and took another sip. She was hesitant, unsure if she should even ask: “Do you have, like, real feelings for him?”

You laughed a little, watched the bubbles rise in your glass when you put it back atop a square napkin. Marina nodded, knew without words that your reaction was a yes. Luckily she knew not to pour salt in a wound.

“Well, you didn’t ask, but…from one woman to another, you’re too smart and talented and you have too much ahead of you to let some asshole guy make you feel like you’re not good enough.”

You giggled a little, let your eyes glance in her direction. “I thought you and Jason were friends?”

“Oh we are,” she nodded emphatically. “But that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of being an asshole.”

Another sip, she clinked her glass against yours and eventually Sophie showed up to take over. Naomi and Max, too, and when you climbed into bed that night beside Max and heard Sophie’s snoring, you felt a tiny bit better. 

At least you could always count on them.

May 16th, 2019

To: Y/N L/N 

From: Jason Sudeikis 

Subject: Final grade

May 16th, 2019 - 1:56pm 

Hi Y/N,

Thanks for submitting your final paper early, it’s great. Final grade for Theory and Practice Seminar is an A.

JS

--

Prof. Jason Sudeikis, PhD

Cinema Studies, NYU Tisch

Office hours M/W 10am-12pm or by appointment

To: Jason Sudeikis 

From: Y/N L/N 

Subject: RE: Final grade

May 16th, 2019 - 6:28pm 

Hi 

Sounds good, thanks

Best,

Y/N L/N

MFA Candidate

Cinema Studies, NYU Tisch

(212-555-8495)

**

You’d never been a fan of long flights. Luckily, the one home from France seven days prior  was made more manageable thanks to the window seat that Max offered up and the half Xanax of Sophie’s that you took with a swig of apple juice at the airport. 

Jason and the rest of the NYU crew were on the same flight, different rows, far away, and fortunately there were no bathroom run-ins. 

New York had bloomed in the days you were gone, your apartment felt tinier upon return and you immediately scoured the internet for job postings over a glass of red blend.

Not that you planned on applying. You know, you were just covering your bases.

A week off from work thanks to your impending graduation ceremony, a giant vase of purple flowers arrived from all of them. Dan, Jennie, Javier, and Jason. You wondered what he said when one of them suggested it. It was probably Jennie. 

Your friends were supportive. They requested your presence at every pre-graduation event: cap decorating at O’Halloran’s and some type of booze cruise on the Hudson. The good thing is that they didn’t give you shit when you flaked at the last second both times. 

In fact, you managed to make it through the whole week without a lecture from any of them about rebounding. Until you were on the subway heading for Yankee Stadium.

Your purple cap and gown was itchy, you stood next to Sophie by one of the doors and watched as Max scrolled on Tinder. 

“Have you swiped right on anyone, ever?” You smirked at him a little, he looked up at you quickly and was already unimpressed.

“I’m picky--which is a good thing.”

“True,” you nodded. “Wouldn’t want you to accidentally end up with a loser.”

He looked back down at his screen and kept swiping. “Have you even been on any of the apps in the last year?”

Sophie let out a sharp laugh. “I bet her last chat is from when she matched with Sudeikis.”

“So what if it is?” You asked her.

Max looked up at you with puppy-eyes. “Maybe you need a hot date to take your mind off of Professor Daddy?”

“I would rather wine and weed,” you said honestly. 

“He’s onto something,” Sophie pointed at Max. “Sometimes a rebound fuck is fun.”

“No thanks.”

“You’re being miserable on purpose,” Max made a face.

“Okay,” Naomi held up a hand. “Today is a happy day, remember? We’re all happy.”

She was looking at you. So you offered a giant grin and made your eyes bug out of your head, followed them to the student meeting area and checked in with your NYU IDs. You avoided the area where the professors were, had no clue if he was over there in his own dumb cap and dumb gown as part of the tradition of the day, but you figured that if one of your friends saw him, you’d find out within a quick 60-seconds.

The seats in the stadium were cramped and sticky, and the May sun was unforgiving. Your family was somewhere in the giant crowd and the whole thing felt anti-climatic. A ninety-minute ceremony and suddenly, just like that, you had a degree and a damaged ego. 

It was a happy day. No matter how the last year of your master’s program went, you were proud of the accomplishment and proud of your friends. At least that’s what you planned on telling your parents when you met up with them for lunch in Chelsea. 

They wanted to freshen up first, according to a text from your mom. So when they went back to their hotel you took the long way home, got off a few stops early and walked through Union Square to trade in your regalia for celebration-appropriate street clothes.

Another three days before you’d have to face him, plenty of time to think up some kind of out and rehearse it endlessly in front of your mirror: no hard feelings, let’s pretend it never happened, strictly professional. 

Your diploma would arrive by mail in a matter of weeks, but now the last three years felt too big to print on paper. Countless scripts and short films, late nights in the library had all culminated into student loans and incomprehensible confusion.

At least you had a job you liked. Too bad you’d already slept with the boss.

So you were sad overall. Angry, sure, about the way he let you walk out of his room that night and the way he hadn’t texted you in a week. He avoided you in the lobby the morning you left and he hadn’t called. 

But more than anything you were scared to think about your life without him. Or, well, without him in it the way he had been. Who would you complain to about Jennie? Who was going to talk you off the ledge about script submissions and red ink? Somehow he’d left a decidedly Jason-shaped hole in your life that felt obvious and sharp and sore. 

Showing up at 30 Rock on Monday would be weird. Maybe not as weird as that time you showed up after he fingered you in his office, but still. 

And in your absent minded strolling you turned left onto your block, stared down at the picture of the two of you in France before you decided you’d been tortured enough today. You clicked it shut, dropped it into the tote bag on your shoulder, where you’d already shoved your cap and tassel once you’d gotten on the train. Keys, somewhere inside. 

“Hi.”

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice. He leaned against the iron railing, sat on the steps of your building like he’d been waiting for you all day.

You stopped, stood a safe distance away from him. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“Were you at graduation?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I figured I did a good enough job of ruining your last year--didn’t want to ruin that, too.”

A beat, a breeze through the leaves overhead and a distant honk from a taxi. You stared at him. “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

He laughed a little, apparently less nervous now that you hadn’t had an explosive outburst or tried to punch him. “About us.”

You narrowed your eyes, couldn’t help it. “I thought there was no ‘us.’”

He ignored your comment, stood and looked you up and down with a smirk on his face. 

“I like your outfit.”

Silence.

“Can I come inside?”

You exhaled, but then paused. “How long have you been sitting here?”

Another tiny laugh, like he was embarrassed to admit it. “Thought I’d catch you before you left, but--”

“I went to Sophie’s this morning.”

He looked at his watch. “I showed up at like, 8:30?”

Your eyebrows rose, it was already almost noon and Sophie had mimosas waiting for you at 7:30. The ceremony started at 9am and he’d been here all this time?

“Oh.”

“Yeah--I could use some water.”

You rolled your eyes at his request, he tugged on the collar of his shirt and pretended to pant. 

“Cool it,” you warned. “I just sat in the direct sun for two and a half hours.”

He watched as you stepped around him and keyed into the lobby, “touché.”

He followed you up the stairs in silence and stood awkwardly in your kitchen when you got him a glass of water. You handed it to him and watched him drink it without pausing. 

“I’m meeting my parents for lunch in…less than an hour.”

“I can be quick,” he nodded, another laugh when he wiped his mouth and put the glass on your kitchen counter. 

You waited, unblinking, as he took a breath. Why was he here? What did he want?

“I completely understand and respect that you’re uninterested in being a secret--my secret, because you shouldn’t have to be one in the first place. Anyone’s. Which--you know--me being a professor and you being a student kind of fucked that up from the start.”

You nodded. Sure. Fine. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. You both agreed to keep your mouths shut. 

“But--”

“But?”

“But at the start it wasn’t…this.”

“You lost me,” You said, not following. 

Another breath, more a huff, really, that you tried not to laugh at. He nodded to himself and you wondered how much rehearsing he’d done on your front step. 

“You were right…in Cannes, that this is something. And I think I’ve known that, but I’ve been so hung up on the fact that it shouldn’t be something. But that doesn’t mean it’s not.” He made a face at his own vagueness, smirked a little when you met his eyes again.

“Am I making any sense?” He asked.

You shrugged, still unsure where he was going and still unsure if you’d give in that easily. 

He tried again. “Just because having feelings for you is unethical doesn’t mean I don’t have them.”

Now you nodded again, repeated his words in your kitchen. “So, you have feelings for me?”

“Are you going to repeat any of this to Dean Vasquez?” He asked.

“No,” you rolled your eyes.

“Then yes,” he nodded confidently. “I like you, and not just because I like having sex with you.”

You smiled, figured you’d play it cool for old time’s sake. “Good to know.”

His jaw dropped a bit in jest, he watched you turn around and unclasp your necklace. “Good to know?! I wait outside on your front step all day and that’s all you have to say?”

“I have to go meet up with my parents! And it’s only been a few hours,” you warned, laughing when he rolled his eyes at that. You took off an earring but held his gaze. “Maybe we can finish this conversation on the other side of my lunch reservation?”

“Should I come? Show them what else you’ve been doing this year aside from getting a Masters degree?”

“No,” you laughed at his joke, a few steps over towards your dresser. “Definitely not.”

He came and unzipped your dress without being asked, sat on the edge of your bed when you stepped out of it and into a pair of jeans. 

“Well,” he pushed his lips out in thought. “I cleared my calendar for this, so I’m ready to finish this conversation whenever you are.”

You peered at him over your shoulder, ran a brush through your hair and smiled a little. There’d always been something there, the reason you got into this mess in the first place was due to the same thread of tension between the two of you that existed today, right here, in your tiny apartment. 

“You can stay here--if you want? While I’m gone? Or you could leave and come back later. Up to you.”

He smiled up at you, maybe that was enough of an answer for him.

“I’ll stay,” he said, a quick redirection when his brow furrowed. “Just to be clear, you’ll come back if I’m here, right? This isn’t your way of getting rid of me now that you’re not my student?”

“You’re still my boss,” you reminded. “Sort of.”

He nodded, “and that’s still hot.”

You turned around, now changed and ready to shoulder a bag before heading across town. A few steps over until you were right in front of him. 

He kept your gaze for a second, reached a hand up for yours. “I’m sorry I ruined the only real date we’ve ever really been on.”

You let out a quick laugh, tugged your hand away and patted him on the shoulder when you shook your head. “Oh, we haven’t been on a date.”

His eyes got wide. “Renting an old car and taking you to a fancy restaurant isn’t a date?”

“Up until…” you checked a wristwatch that wasn’t there and smirked, “two hours ago, I was still your student. So no. You can’t take your student on a date. But you can take the 27-year-old woman you’ve been sleeping with for a while on one.”

He fought the smile on his face, nodded slowly but played along. “Got it. Okay.”

“Okay? I’ve gotta go. Do you need a snack?”

“I know where you keep everything,” he reassured. 

You leaned down, let him kiss you on the mouth before you smiled. “You’re sure you’re okay to stay?”

He was. He did. 

Maybe neither of you knew how to do this. Maybe crossing lines and bending rules wasn’t your forte and when he clinked a glass of wine against yours that night on your fire escape, it felt okay to not know.

After spending a year living in uncertainty it was nice to wake up beside him, knowing that whatever this was, it was the start of your new chapter: whatever comes next.

AN: There's an epilogue, don't say I didn't tell ya!

table of contents | talk to me & join the tag list | the playlist

tag list: @sheerangermany @clarebearr @tedlassostan @hart-kinsella @kahluamystery97 @airplanes924 @trulymadlykiki @thisismysecondrodeo @mypugsley @jng4kook @msolbesg @stankface @ljej95 @ivetastedbloodanditissweet @pascal-reyes @paola-carter @rubberduckingaro @golden-hoax @ccbb2222 @caplikeme @outofthecradlex @mackenzmeme @reann-shitposting @very-berry-harry @winter-soldier-007 @tinydeskwriter @femmel90 @shawnsblue @iwanttogoeverywhereplease @sillyeverydays @goodbyesaneworld @sillyeverydays 

She’d nodded thoughtfully, said she’d get back to you after a conversation with her boss, and didn’t bring it up for another week. But then she gave you the green light. 

Graduate Interns had rotations on various script development teams anyway, and if you wanted to forgo rotating and stick it out with Jason’s team, Maggie said that was your decision. No application necessary, but also no pay. 

So after introducing them via email and wondering what Jason had been up to all summer, you smoothed out your t-shirt before you knocked on an open door frame.

“Hi,” you greeted, watched as he looked up from his computer at a conference table in midtown. 

“Hey,” he smiled a little when he looked up. “How are you?”

“Good,” you smiled. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He laughed a little at that, your heart thumped when it sounded familiar.

“Wow—” he looked you up and down, a playful smile paired with a serious tone. “Surprised I made it a whole few months without a panicked email!”

“If I recall—I’ve panicked to you in person more than over email,” you defended, a quiet laugh when you crossed your arms over your chest. 

“Oh, right,” he nodded, playing along. “I forgot that when you really need something from someone you just show up at their office first thing in the morning.”

“That was only once,” you rolled your eyes. “And 10am isn’t first thing in the morning.”

He rolled his eyes, smiled a little but then held your gaze. 

You’d wondered all summer, checked your email a few times before blips of disappointment when there was nothing new. 

When he’d texted in late June you smiled for a few days, knew that somewhere out there—in a bar or his stuffy office or maybe his living room—you existed in his mind. 

But then July came and went and you wondered if whatever seemed to click into place in Cannes would vanish into the thick summer air of August.

Now he smiled up at you like he was about to say something, footsteps over your shoulder cut him off.

“Hi,” a woman smiled, shoulder length dark hair and cute glasses. “I’m Jennie. You must be…”

She offered a hand towards you, an eager look on her face when you fumbled with a greeting. 

“Hi—I’m Y/N L/N—nice to meet you.”

“Uh—Jennie’s great, Y/N, she’s on our staff and she’s super talented.” Jason nodded and watched the two of you, still shaking hands in the middle of the room. 

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she smiled sweetly. “Jason’s said a lot of great things.”

You pulled your hand back now, uncomfortable with the way your stomach churned with jealousy. 

It’s not like you expected it to be just the two of you. It’s not like you expected to waltz in here and be his favorite and to sit and laugh and ignore everyone else in the room. 

You just hadn’t really thought much at all about how the dynamic would shift with other adults around. Especially women.

Stupid—you felt the self-judgment rush in when you found a seat and greeted the other writers who had similarly disappeared for a snack or bathroom break. Coffee in a pitcher in the center of the table.

They launched in, read through what had already been secured for a storyline and did some brainstorming on a white board before lunch. Some of them knew each other from previous projects or mutual friends, you tried not to feel like the outsider.

You were quieter than usual, watching in awe as they excavated the fine details and sculpted the overarching themes. Jennie seemed more comfortable in the room than you—more confident when she threw out ideas or built on to someone else’s. 

A loud but pleasant laugh when she tossed her head back—you tried to temper your own disdain. 

You packed up your bag around 6pm, pretended that you didn’t see the way she gave him a playful shove when the day wrapped up. 

“Hey,” he caught your attention when you turned towards the hallway. “Let me walk you out.”

You didn’t say anything, nodded and offered a farewell to Jennie and the gang over your shoulder when he fell into step beside you.

“Decent first day?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, though you weren’t entirely sure. A pang of frustration when you contemplated his actions. Was this a pity walk out? 

“I’m glad you’re able to work with us,” he smiled. He watched you press the button for the elevator, it chimed in arrival before you stepped on.

“Me too, yeah—I appreciate you thinking of me. Hope I live up to your expectations.”

He smiled a little at that, one of those flirty smirks that had you second guessing your every move and swallowing down desire. 

“You’re gonna be great,” he said. 

The elevator buzzed in frustration—pick a floor!—you snapped back to reality and hit the L. 

“You don’t have to come down—if you’re not leaving,” you scanned over his body. No messenger bag, no hat or sunglasses. He left his things in the conference room down the hall and shrugged when he met your eyes.

“I want to.”

The doors slid shut, a feeling of warmth washed over you when you were alone again. He smiled at you like he had something to say, like he wanted to crack a joke.

“What?” You looked at him now, a narrowed glance when you waited for him to spill it.

“Just—I don’t know—you’re funny and I guess I—“

He cut himself off.

“Say it,” you looked up at him, still unsure where he was going but certain you wanted to find out.

“I guess I missed you this summer, but—I don’t—I don’t want to be weird by saying that.”

“You’re not,” you shook your head a little, maybe too fast or too eager. The doors opened and you both stood frozen for a moment in the elevator.

You stepped out and he followed behind. 

“I definitely missed Chinese take out,” you shrugged, another experiment and having the upper hand. 

He pushed his lips out and nodded, a playful look on his face when he watched you for a second. You weren’t going to fold that easily and apparently, he knew it. 

“Well, I’ll see you for class. Friday?”

“Friday.” You agreed.

So Thursday was quiet, you caught up on reading and emails and cleaned your bathroom. Your internship seminar with Jason was three hours, Friday evenings. 

A small class, limited to 10 third-year students who were preparing to launch into the industry after completing 600 hours of internship over the two semesters.

Discussion and support and time to work on your capstone project: a year-long assignment of your choosing that could be added to your portfolio and would, hopefully, exhibit your growth as an industry professional. 

Lucky for you, Max had also managed to secure a spot in Jason’s internship seminar. He sat beside you on the first evening and when both your phones lit up with the group chat, he offered a sly smile in your direction.

Sophie Mendez (6:32pm): when Max and Y/N get out of class let’s do O’Halloran’s—cheese fries sound perfect 

Which is how you ended up in a booth by 7:10, Max tugged you out of the classroom and muttered under his breath: you need to leave him wanting more. 

They put you on trial after the waitress took your order, desperate to hear how the first week in the writers room and in the classroom was after weeks of no communication.

“He walked me out of 30 Rock,” you fluttered your eyelashes a little, more of a brag about the location than the company. 

“And we thought things were hot and heavy in the spring,” Naomi teased. 

“Yeah—but—probably best to leave all of that in the past.”

“I’m sorry—did your crush not carry into this semester?” Max sipped his drink, implying you were full of shit.

“No--I just--I don’t know,” you laughed. “I feel like I need a fresh start with him, right? Now I’m doing my internship, somehow we’re writing a literal tv show together--”

You didn’t dare tell them his disclosure: I missed you this summer. 

That didn’t feel like something you say to a student. You knew if you told them, the booth at O’Halloran’s would become even more of a courtroom and you’d get even more questions.  

Sophie gave you a knowing look. “Which means spending way more time with him.”

“I’m in the writer’s room like twice a week, okay? And I only have one class with him,” you defended. 

“But I feel like the stakes are higher,” Sophie cooed. 

You couldn’t necessarily disagree. The start of a new semester had you wondering if this was a mess worth getting into. Did you want to throw yourself at him half of the time? Yes. Did you want to deal with the possible backlash and awkwardness that could come of it? No.

The obvious fix had to be repressing your crush, right? Right.

On Monday you showed up to 30 Rock and stayed focused. You were the first one there, sipping a coffee when Jennie walked in with a smile on her face. 

“Hi!” She greeted, dropping her bag into a seat across from you. “Happy Monday!”

“Happy Monday,” you played nice, aware that your dislike of her was rooted in nothing. 

She fished through her bag for some chapstick, applied it before she asked: “did you have a nice weekend?”

“I did,” you nodded. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” she took her seat. “Relaxing--Jason actually sent me a great movie recommendation, it was nice to just lay low.”

You smiled a little, had no clue what to say when she brought him into the conversation. 

“Must be so cool to learn from him, right? He seems so knowledgeable and experienced.”

“Yeah,” you looked up at her now, uncertain where she was going with it. She was also hired by NBC to write on this show. After a late night google search fueled by red wine and pettiness, you learned she’d written on another successful sitcom in the early 2010s and had enjoyed a fair amount of celebrity from it. 

Wasn’t she also knowledgeable and experienced?

Dan--a guy in his late 30s who always wore vintage band shirts--walked in and distracted her, thankfully. The rest of the team filed in and Jason did too. He took the seat next to Jennie and muttered something to her after offering a smile in your direction. 

You dove into the pilot around 9:30--felt nervous in moments but weighed in a bit more as the clock ticked towards lunch. It was fun to be creative with new people and watch the way ideas snowballed into conversations and debates and finally, full-fledged scenes. 

“If we do that--if Shawn does that,” Jason corrected, tugging on the collar of his shirt as he built onto your idea for the main character. “There’s no way one of his friends doesn’t get pulled into it.”

You nodded in agreement, knowing his comment was directed towards you as you fleshed out a detail. “Right,” you looked up at him before sprinkling in a joke, “pack of idiots type of thing.”

He laughed at that, “exactly.”

A moment of quiet in the room. Jennie and Dan exchanged a glance, Javier scribbled on paper and sipped more coffee. 

“Should we break for lunch?” Jason looked around, eyes scanning the rest of the team. Nods and stretches when you stood from the table, grabbed your wallet from your bag and headed for the door. 

“Y/N--wait up,” he called behind you. 

You paused in the doorway and smiled, walked with him towards the elevator when he asked: “Where are you gonna grab food?”

“There’s a sandwich place a few blocks down that I’ve heard is good.”

He smiled, “Burton’s Deli, yeah.”

So he followed you out into the hallway and all the way there. He laughed when you told him how Max’s internship was going, he’s not famous yet so…he’s upset. Once you were in line behind other people on their lunch break, he turned to see you. 

“Everyone on the team is pretty cool, right? I feel like we have a good vibe going.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, not sure if you really meant it. A step forward when someone else got their sandwich. “Did you know any of them before this?”

“I’ve known Dan for a while--him and I have worked together a few times before. I also recommended him.”

You nodded. “What about Jennie?”

He looked at you, caught the glimpse of whatever it was in your eyes and smirked. “What about her?”

“Did you know her before this?”

“No,” he shook his head. “She wrote with a friend of mine on a show a few years back, but--why? Do you not like her?”

“No,” you let your head wobble side to side. “She’s nice--I don’t know.”

He laughed, another step forward in line. “You don’t know?”

“She had a lot of questions for me this morning.”

It felt good to be honest, you know you could say things to him now and he wouldn’t repeat it. Somewhere along the lines, whatever there was between you had solidified into something. Friends? Colleagues? You pushed the desire for a label out of your mind when he seemed curious.

“About?”

“You.”

His eyebrows raised, not the answer he was expecting. “Me?”

“About NYU and--you know--school stuff,” you clarified. 

He nodded. “I see.”

“She’s fine--I don’t know, I’m sure we’ll get to know each other better.”

“From what I’ve heard she’s really great. I talked with producers and we knew we wanted a good female perspective on everything. Nothing’s worse than a writers room with only men.”

“Well if she’s the female perspective, what am I here for?” You teased.

He smiled, rolled his eyes a little at you but then grabbed a soda from the cooler. “Well, number one, I thought you’d be a good fit for this writer’s room because of your talent and skill.” He made a face as if to say duh. He wasn’t going to let you dunk on yourself like that. 

“Number two…there’s more--” he trailed off, looked around the room like it hid the word he was searching for-- “history, between us, so, I guess I kind of trust you more.”

History. You smirked at that--unsure if it was a subtle nod to the way he looked at you in Cannes or just a figment of your imagination. 

You didn’t reply, met his eyes quickly but moved through the line and walked back to the midtown conference room without asking for clarification. 

He had to know what he was doing. At this point, you both danced up to the line and threatened to cross it, daring the other to do it first. 

A metaphorical tug of war, and when you left 30 Rock that night, you wondered how it would end. 

The rest of the week went about as you expected, you had your first day on set with another NBC show and grabbed drinks with the other interns on Wednesday. 

When the weekend circled back again, you spent the afternoon in the park with Sophie sipping on rosé before your phone chimed to signal a new message. 

Jason Sudeikis (3:41pm): I know Sundays aren’t for working but I might have figured out a solution to our transition issue in the final pilot scene

Y/N L/N (3:42pm): Yeah? What’s that?

Jason Sudeikis (3:42): We could just have Shawn meet Natalie in the second episode

Jason Sudeikis (3:43): Like have it open with them meeting

Y/N L/N (3:43pm): Oh that might work. That way we don’t have to cram it in

Jason Sudeikis (3:44): Exactly!

Jason Sudeikis (3:44): Sorry to bother you on a Sunday though, just figured I’d share the idea with someone to bookmark it

Y/N L/N (3:46pm): This was only a small interruption to my rosé in the park with Sophie, so I’ll let it slide

Jason Sudeikis (3:48): What a perfect Sunday afternoon activity haha

Jason Sudeikis (3:48): Much better than mine

Y/N L/N (3:49pm): Which is?

Jason Sudeikis (3:50): Avoiding cleaning my apartment by thinking about work

You laughed out loud a little, Sophie eyed you through her sunglasses. 

“Are you texting him?”

“I don’t know who him is.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “At least it’s elevated to texting instead of emailing.”

“We don’t text often,” you informed her, sitting up to look out at the other patrons in the park. Down towards the tip of the island, kites and boats visible in the harbor when you sipped your glass of wine. “And we’re texting right now about work stuff.”

“I’m so excited for you guys to just fuck at some point--”

“Sophie, I have no idea if that will ever happen.”

“He got you a spot in his writer’s room,” she reminded you. “He texts you. He treats you like you’re his friend--not his student.”

“That doesn’t automatically mean he wants to have sex with me.”

“No--but a few more late nights in his office or whatever and something is bound to happen.”

You thought on it for a second, let yourself imagine what it would be like to feel his mouth against yours or his hands on your bare skin. You sighed. 

“What?” She eyed you again.

“Well--I know it’s been fun for all of us to hype this whole thing up but, I don’t know, there could be serious consequences, right?”

“Let’s find out,” she picked up her phone, typed a few things into Google before she cleared her throat. “New York University Policies and Guidelines…Sexual Misconduct?”

“Oh jesus--”

“Here--Policy on Consensual Intimate Relationships.”

The words made your stomach churn with anxiety. Sophie kept reading out loud.

“Entering into a sexual, dating or romantic relationship (“Intimate Relationship”) when one individual has power or authority over the other may compromise freely given consent, put the academic and professional development of the individuals at risk…blah blah blah, okay I’m skipping ahead.”

You laughed a little at her short attention span, another sip of rosé.

“Intimate Relationships between the following individuals are specifically prohibited: a faculty member and an undergraduate student--that’s not you guys,” she injected her own commentary. “A faculty member and a graduate student in the same discipline or academic program; an academic or faculty advisor and an advisee; a teaching assistant and a student in the teaching assistant’s class--okay so that’s two strikes already for you.”

“Okay,” you waved your hand in the air, a defeated tone in your voice. “It’s prohibited--we get it.”

She ignored you, kept scanning her screen. “Although it is recognized that the student or subordinate may be a full and willing participant in an Intimate Relationship--”

“That hasn’t even happened,” you reminded, waiting to hear the rest of it.

“Both the responsibility for adhering to this policy and the consequences for violating it fall upon the person in a position of power or authority, rather than the student or subordinate. Violations of this policy are referred to the appropriate disciplinary procedure based on the status of the employee in the position of greater power or authority over the other individual.”

You stared at her, digested the formal language. 

She scrunched her nose and nodded behind her sunglasses. “So even if you initiate it or if it’s consesual, he could get fucked over.”

“Great.”

“Unless you guys keep it a secret,” she wiggled her eyebrows. “And play it super safe.”

“After reading all of that I’m shocked you think I have the balls to do anything.”

“Oh come on--neither of you would ever want to get the other in trouble.”

Okay, fine, fair. He’d never let you take the blame but you’d never let him go down alone. No, no, no, you couldn’t let Sophie talk you into this. 

“And if he’s also into you, he wouldn’t want to risk getting himself in trouble so he would totally keep quiet about it.”

“Sophie--”

“I’m just saying!” She clicked her phone shut and dropped it down to the blanket you’d spread out on the grass. “Just playing devil’s advocate.”

“Alright, well thanks, but--I still think all of this is just better left alone.”

“And I will respect you if you choose not to do anything,” she said. You could tell there was more to her sentence. “But I also respect if you need to get laid and think Sudeikis is the perfect suitor.”

Now it was your turn to stare at her through your sunglasses, another sip of rosé with a coy smile. “Noted, Soph, thanks.”

September 16th, 2018

Max got stuck late at his internship, leaving an empty seat beside you in Jason’s internship seminar on Friday night. Class moved on as usual, a glance in Jason’s direction when he handed out initial self-evaluations and his fingers brushed yours. 

“These are due in a few weeks--nothing serious but there’s a self-evaluation for you and a professor eval for me. We each do our part, discuss, and then review again at the mid-year mark and at the end of the spring semester,” he explained. 

The internship seminar was a full-year course. Meaning that until May 15th, when you walked across the stage for graduation, you’d spend Friday nights with Jason. 

“I trust you to fill Max in on all of this?” He smiled down at you before he kept walking around the circle of chairs. You nodded, took an extra for your friend and slipped it in your backpack. 

“We can schedule meetings to review these together,” he said to the group. “But for now take them home and let me know if you have any questions in the meantime.”

A majority of class time was spent discussing various things that happened at everyone’s internships: the cool things they did and how they were bringing what they learned in the classroom onto set. The assigned reading was light--memoirs by various writers and directors-- with plenty of excited and casual discussion about navigating the jump from student to intern to employee. 

The start of your third and final year felt terrifying, and you didn’t know how concerned to be when you realized that Jason provided just as much comfort at this point as your friends.

It almost came as a relief, to know that you’d move through the remainder of the academic year with this group by your side. Max and the other classmates you’d grown with, books by some of your heroes and the stable Friday nights where you knew you’d laugh just as much as you’d learn. 

And after class on the third week of the semester, you found Naomi on a bench outside Grayson Hall. She sat cross-legged with her laptop open, editing whatever project she was working on. 

You walked over and sat beside her, she tugged her headphones off and smiled. “Survive another week?”

“Barely,” you laughed. “I don’t know about you but I’m tired.”

She nodded. “Internship plus classes plus work plus social,” she shrugged. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to do it.”

“The promise of a degree and a paycheck one day makes it easier,” you admitted. 

“How was your class?”

“Fine,” you said simply. “Max had to run to a meeting for his new doc,” you gestured off through campus, imagined Max grabbing another espresso before his 7pm arrival. “What are you working on?”

“Basic edits,” she shrugged, flipped her computer around to show you how things were coming along. “Easy project for my internship.”

“You like it, though, right?”

Naomi smiled. She was easily the quietest of the friend group, the responsible one. You appreciated her advice and respected that she seemed to be the voice of reason when it came to your inconvenient lusting after Professor Sudeikis.

“I love it,” she told you. “It’s exhausting and I have no energy to cook, but I can’t believe how fast time flies when I’m there and I feel giddy every morning to go to work.’’

You nodded, listened when a thought popped into her head and she laughed. 

“Must be what it’s like to go to work with Jason everyday.”

“Ha ha,” you faked a laugh, she reached over and patted you on the thigh, you know I’m kidding. 

“Speaking of, though--” you looked over her shoulder, saw him approaching from the front doors of Grayson. “Let’s act like we don’t talk about him all the time.”

She looked back at her computer, did an impressive job of glancing over at him casually as he approached.

“Hi,” his hands were in his pockets, sunglasses over his eyes when he stopped on the sidewalk right in front of you.

“Hey,” you greeted, Naomi offered a smile, the look on her face told you she wondered if she should give the two of you a moment alone.

“Hi Naomi,” he smiled.

“Hello,” she offered him a knowing glance. So much for Naomi’s claim that she didn’t do anything obnoxious. 

“I was just heading to my office—gonna try to knock out some work on the script.”

“Oh,” you said, a quick glance in Naomi’s direction. “I could come with you—I don’t mind.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged a little, a soft smile. “Of course—if you’re free.”

“Well then,” you smiled down at Naomi. “I won’t keep you!”

You shouldered your bag and stood, she laughed when you encouraged her to enjoy some leftovers and embrace the exhaustion: all in a day's work.

Jason sent a text on his phone but then looked up at you when you headed for Luft. 

“You’re sure you’re up for another late night with me?” He laughed, adding a qualifier at the end: “you know, of writing.”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I had a coffee at 4pm today which is way too late for me, so I’ve got some energy to burn.”

“Ahh,” he said knowingly. “Is the lack of sleep in this industry finally catching up with you?”

“Either that or I’m getting old,” you joked. 

“Please,” he rolled his eyes. “You’re fine.”

“Well--the latte that Max practically shoved down my throat won’t last forever, so--apologies in advance if I crash.”

He told you about his commute when you climbed the steps to Luft--a woman went into labor on the subway and someone was barefoot! You filled him in on the other days at your internship on set for a popular show as a writer’s assistant, laughed about how so far you’d been asked to fetch two sandwiches. 

They’re obviously not using your skills to the best of their ability, he teased.

He uncapped expo markers after you both settled in, you tossed ideas back and forth about the script and jotted down some moments of dialogue that you worked out. You took your usual seat, paced around the room when you thought out loud. He smiled and watched you, argued when he thought an idea was not your best, but also complimented your commitment when you tried to stifle a yawn.

“If you need to go home and sleep, I get it,” he laughed. “No need to be a hero.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I’m fine--and we’re doing good work,” you looked at the whiteboard on the side wall. His handwriting was messier than yours, arrows connected plot points and he didn’t erase the stick-figure drawing of one of the characters you’d made. 

It was already 9pm. Did your bed sound nice? Did a hot shower feel like it held the answer to all of your problems? Partially. But you weren’t about to give up alone time with him in his office as music faintly drifted through his laptop speakers. 

You fell into silence for a while, reading through the scene notes a few times and racking your brain for ideas. You tossed a few back and forth, laughed about the dumb ones but still came up short. 

After another ten minutes of silence—and when the words on the page started to jump around—you sighed. 

“Alright, I can’t do this anymore,” you slunk down in your seat and pulled the hood of your sweatshirt over your head, tugged at the strings to cover your face. “My brain is fried.”

“Hey, for a fried brain you’ve still come up with some good stuff tonight.”

“Are you kidding me?” You laughed, brought your eyes up to see him when you pushed the hood back down to your shoulders. “I suggested we give a character an evil twin.”

“It’ll come to us,” he laughed, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. “Let’s just—uh—order food! We need dinner,” he shrugged like this was the obvious fix; you hoped it was his attempt at extending the evening. 

“What do you want?” You asked, boredom still cloaked your words and he shot you an unimpressed glance. 

“I don’t know—we can always do Chinese, there’s a pizza place that’s really good too—“ he rifled through paper menus in his desk drawer. 

“Let me see,” you stood from your table in the corner, took a few steps and reached out a hand.

“I’m getting them,” he said, a playful tone when he rolled his eyes in jest. “Hold on!”

“Not fast enough,” you said, reaching from over his arm. “Just let me see it.”

“No,” he laughed, tugging it out of reach as he stood. He held it overhead, arm extending out towards the ceiling. You reached for it but weren’t close enough, a shit eating grin crept onto his face. 

You looked up at him, the smile at his dumb humor faded when you felt the heat from his body. Close. 

“I was gonna give it to you,” he said quietly, feet still planted in the same spot. 

“I don’t believe you,” you rolled your eyes.

“You don’t seem to believe a lot of what I say.”

“Well sometimes it seems like you’re full of shit.”

“I’m not,” he shrugged innocently. 

You stared at him for a second, tried to count to three to see if it was worth the risk. It was.

You leaned up and pushed your mouth into his, hands cupped around his jaw before you felt his hand link around your waist to tug you closer.

But then he pulled back. 

“I shouldn’t—you know, uh—I’m sorry.”

“No,” you shook your head quickly, wiped the trace of him off your mouth. Oh god. “I know—I should probably go.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah,” you moved over to your seat, picked up your bag and slid your laptop and papers inside. “I’ll see you in a few days, I’ll let you know if anything comes to me,” you gestured down to the script that was now tucked in your bag. 

“Okay, yeah—ditto.”

“Alright,” you hurried to the door. He scratched the back of his neck, the watch on his wrist would keep ticking, the moment slipping away into the night.

“See you—“

“Yep—bye.”

The door shut behind you and echoed in the otherwise empty building. You hurried down the stairs and rounded each corner with haste. 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. 

It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once, something that floated into your mind with ease on a sunny afternoon or when you climbed into bed.

But now it happened—not just in your brain—but in his office. The September night was quiet when you came out to the safety of the sidewalk. The sun left streaks of orange in the denim blue sky, you took a deep breath.

Well, there was that.

To: Y/N L/N 

From: Jason Sudeikis

Subject: review

September 18th, 2018 - 11:12am

Hi Y/N, 

Your first internship review is due by the end of the month. I’m sure it’s on your radar but since you haven’t mentioned it yet let’s find a time to meet. Let me know. 

JS

__

Prof. Jason Sudeikis, PhD

Cinema Studies, NYU Tisch

Office hours T/TH 5-7pm or by appointment

To: Jason Sudeikis

From: Y/N L/N

Subject: RE: review

September 18th, 2018 - 1:48pm

Hi,

Yes, been meaning to schedule that. Sorry for the delay. I could drop by office hours? Let me know. 

Best, 

Y/N L/N

MFA Candidate

Cinema Studies, NYU Tisch

(212-555-8495)

To: Y/N L/N 

From: Jason Sudeikis

Subject: review

September 18th, 2018 - 4:31pm

Hi,

Office hours are fine. Let’s aim for Tuesday this week. See you then.

JS

__

Prof. Jason Sudeikis, PhD

Cinema Studies, NYU Tisch

Office hours T/TH 5-7pm or by appointment

September 20th, 2018

It took a few days for you to wrap your head around it. Luckily, for those few days, you were able to avoid your friends and throw yourself into work to avoid whatever questions they’d have and whatever answers you didn’t. 

It was the weekend, so you did some obsessing over the script and some cleaning of your apartment to keep busy. You did your grocery shopping and picked up your laundry from the wash and fold on your block. His emails had come through on Sunday.

So when you made your way through campus later in the week, you were sure he wouldn’t be late this time. 

He was actually already standing behind his desk, looking out the window when you knocked.

“Hey,” you met his eyes when he turned to see you.

“Hi,” he said, voice quiet. He took a step forward but then stopped awkwardly. “Do you want to come in?”

“Do you want me to?” You treaded lightly, not sure where he was at.

He nodded. You shut the door behind you when you stepped inside, careful to be quiet as it latched into place. You hadn’t seen him since it happened, hadn’t been inside his office or close enough to remember what it felt to be pressed up against him. 

Your thoughts raced for a second: what did he do over the weekend? Did he think about you and what to say and what it meant? Was he angry?

You took a few steps towards him, parted your lips to speak but he cut you off.

“I want to apologize, I guess, for the other night. I think I was just caught up in the heat of the moment, and I crossed a line and that wasn’t cool.”

You blinked a few times, simultaneously touched by the sentiment in his words but also desperate to feel him again. It had been one kiss--quick and clunky and one that came with an immediate sense of confusion. One that you initiated and knew was steeped in risk. But it made you want him more.

“No, I’m sorry—I’m the one who crossed a line, I don’t--I don’t know why it happened.”

He laughed a little, a casual shrug as if his words didn’t shatter the air around you, as if you weren’t lying to his face.

“I mean, I think there’s always been something here.”

You waited a beat—gave him a chance to clarify but he left you hanging. 

You spoke quietly, the look in his eyes told you he knew the game you were playing. “What do you mean?”

You kept your eyes on his for a moment, leaned against his desk and crossed your arms over your chest. Hearing him say it out loud made your pulse quicken, but it didn’t stop the alarm that sounded in your head: don’t be stupid, he’s your advisor.

He took a step closer to you, eyes scanning over your entire body like he was just as confused. “What do I mean?” he repeated your question with a smirk. You watched him come closer until there were only a few inches between you, close enough to smell his aftershave and feel the heat from his body. 

You both leaned in this time, slower and less scared but somehow just as timid and shy and soft. You felt him smile against your mouth when you let out a quiet moan, your hands reached up to his face, the stubble on his chin scratched your skin in the best way.

He reached a hand down and grazed the inside of your thigh, right above the hemline of the button down skirt you wore. A shiver down your spine when his fingers met the fabric of your panties. Maybe it was wrong or unethical or whatever, but when he pushed the material aside and made contact with your clit, you were putty in his hands.

You melted into him, pushing yourself on top of the desk to grant him better access. You spread your legs almost involuntarily, aching into his fingers when he bit your lower lip. His middle finger swooped to gain entrance and he dipped inside you with ease. 

He knew what he was doing, no doubt. But the build up and the slow burn of wondering if anything would ever happen seemed to amplify the sensation that grew between your thighs.

It didn’t take long before you rode your orgasm out onto his fingers, his other hand was firm against your jaw before he pulled away and cleared his throat, he was almost out of breath.

“Should we—uh—should we do your first review?”

You tried to catch yours, nodding when he walked around to sit at his desk. “Yeah--yes, uh--I don’t--do you have the form?”

“I do,” he nodded, scratching his jaw when he clicked around on his computer. “It’s here somewhere.”

You smoothed out your skirt and your hair, sat across from his desk. “Okay.”

Silence for a moment, your heart was in your throat and the excitement of the moment sprouted roots in your chest, delirious. Hopefully that would happen again soon. 

“Here,” he said, seemingly more settled. He let out a longer breath and scanned over the form. “I fill out the advisor one, you fill out the student one.”

“Makes sense.”

He clicked his mouse again and then the printer behind him came to life. A green light on the screen before it spit out four pages--two for him and two for you. He didn’t say anything when he stood and got them, turned around and handed you a pen before he took his seat again. 

He looked over his form and you tried to focus. 

The following self-assessment is intended to…

You chanced a look in his direction. His brow was furrowed and he bit the top of his pen. Was he waiting for you to acknowledge it?

Okay, nevermind. You looked down at the paper. 

On a scale of one to five, please rate your current performance in the following areas. 

Now you felt his gaze. You looked up and met his eyes for a second, the corner of his mouth pulled up and yours did too. 

table of contents | talk to me & join the tag list | the playlist

tag list: @sheerangermany @clarebearr @tedlassostan @hart-kinsella @kahluamystery97 @airplanes924 @trulymadlykiki @thisismysecondrodeo @mypugsley @jng4kook @msolbesg @stankface @ljej95 @ivetastedbloodanditissweet @pascal-reyes @paola-carter @rubberduckingaro @golden-hoax @ccbb2222 @caplikeme @outofthecradlex @mackenzmeme @reann-shitposting @very-berry-harry @winter-soldier-007 @tinydeskwriter @femmel90

AN: OKAY HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!!!!

To: Jason Sudeikis 

From: Y/N L/N 

Subject: RE: btw

May 20th, 2019 - 8:21am 

Hi Doctor Sudeikis,

This is great news! 

P.S. I like my bagels toasted

Best,

Y/N L/N

MFA Candidate

Cinema Studies, NYU Tisch

(212-555-8495)

You swiped out of your email, a notification came across the top of your screen. Hinge, one new message. 

Jason Sudeikis (8:22am): Can I take you on a real date now, please?

Students filed out of Frederick when you wove through a sea of backpacks and umbrellas, silently cursing the soggy paper cup in your hand when you pressed a button to summon the elevator. 

“Y/N, hi,” you heard his voice and tried to spin around casually--you know, in a I’m not thinking at all about how we matched on Hinge last month and I don’t know if it was a joke or not way. He smiled when you met his eyes, glanced down at the coffee in your hand and then the two cups in his. “I see you’re way ahead of me.”

“Oh, did you get one for me?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “--but, I can drink two, unless yours got too soggy on the way here.”

The elevator dinged in arrival and more students filed off--he offered polite smiles to faces he recognized before you stepped inside. When the doors shut, it was just the two of you. 

“I’ll take it, yeah, thank you--this one sucked anyway.”

Not true, but it felt rude to decline what you suspected was a peace offering. A no hard feelings about the fact that we matched on Hinge last month offering. 

He smiled, handed it over and stood there in awkward silence for a second. Okay, so you weren’t going to acknowledge it. You sipped the new coffee he’d gotten you--it actually was better than yours--and then brought your eyes up to his. 

“I hope you had a nice winter break!”

He nodded. “I did, yeah, did you?”

“I did--visited my family in St. Louis for a bit, definitely nice to have some time off.”

“I didn’t know you were from St. Louis,” his head tilted to the side, the corner of his mouth pulled up and you smiled. 

“Born and raised.”

“I’m from Kansas City--Kansas, too, a.k.a the good one.”

You smiled at his joke, he gestured for you to go first when the doors parted on the second floor. He followed behind you towards the lounge area he’d mentioned in his email: two couches, a few chairs, coffee tables and a vending machine. Some students were scattered throughout, laptops and AirPods and water bottles as the Spring Semester got underway.

“Thanks for doing this--Leah Pratt was going to but I guess something changed with her internship schedule,” he explained, reaching into the leather messenger bag that was permanently slung over his shoulder. 

Right, okay, so maybe you did have a tiny, totally innocent crush on your academic advisor. And maybe that crush grew a little bit when you had him as a professor last semester and realized that not only was he incredibly knowledgeable about his area of expertise, but he was also funny and cute and, of course, single. 

“Of course, yeah--I’m glad to help out,” you nodded. 

He handed you a syllabus that he’d typed up, put a pen in his mouth as he fished for his cellphone in his pocket. “And of course, you know, I’ll be happy to write you a letter of recommendation. You’ll do an internship next year, right?”

His question was likely more out of confirmation than uncertainty, seeing as he’d been the one to sit down with you your first semester and create a course map.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I’ll be ready to apply in April.”

“Good,” he nodded, scanning over the paper in his hands but still managing to glance up and meet your eyes for a moment. He smiled, a quick one, and then cleared his throat. “So--I’m sure you took this class, right, back in the day?”

You did--Junior Year, when you still had no idea if you wanted to go to grad school let alone stay at NYU for another two to four years. Script writing wasn’t even on your radar back then. You’d moved to New York at 18 with the dream of being a director. Television, film, it didn’t really matter.

But the Advanced Script Writing Seminar you took with Professor Anne May Walter--a badass screenwriter who’d guest written three episodes of Girls--had you hooked in a heartbeat, thus leading to your application and subsequent admittance to the MFA program in Cinema Studies with a focus on Television Screenplay. 

Professor Sudeikis--who absolutely hated being called Doctor Sudeikis, despite the factual nature of the title--had been assigned as your advisor in your first year of the MFA program. 

Now, as he sat across from you, you knew he knew the answer to his own question. 

“Anne May Walter,” you smiled, having already dished to him about the crucial role the class had played in the course of your academic career thus far. 

“She’s a gem,” he smiled back. “So--we meet twice weekly, you’ll be expected to come to every class obviously barring illness or scheduling conflicts, we can just keep in touch,” he shrugged, looking back down to the syllabus again. “You’ll help lead small group discussions and critiques of scripts, assist in grading papers, the like.”

“Got it.”

“You get two credits--I already submitted the course change request to the Registrar, did you get an email approval?”

“I did,” you nodded. “Last night, actually.”

“Perfect. And you’re in my Television: History and Culture class, this semester, right?”

Another nod. There were two sections, one with him and one with another professor who you’d never had before. The choice was easy. 

He glanced up at you quickly, held your gaze for a second before he offered a slight shrug. “Well, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this spring, then.”

You tried to fight the smile that crept onto your face. You could hear Sophie’s voice in your head as you fumbled with the staple in the top left corner of the syllabus: say something flirty!

“I hope that’s not a bad thing.”

His eyebrows raised in slight surprise, but he played it cool. “No--not at all.”

So you sat there and sipped your coffee, listened as he briefed you on the assignments and projects and the students you’d be meeting in only twenty minutes. You followed him into the classroom when it was time and tried to ignore the way he rolled up his sleeves. When the undergrads trickled in, he cracked a few jokes to break the ice before he gave a more formal introduction. 

“I’m Jason Sudeikis, you can call me Professor Sudeikis, Mr. Sudeikis, Jason, I don’t really care what you call me as long as it’s not Doctor Sudeikis,” he paused for laughter. “Even though it’s technically correct I have a terrible inferiority complex because my older sister is actually a neurosurgeon--so, yeah--avoid that one if you want a good grade.”

You saw a girl in the front row smile at her friend, cute and smart and funny? You knew the feeling. 

“And this is Y/N L/N--I’ll let her say a bit about herself but she’ll be our wonderful TA this semester. She’s a Graduate Student in the MFA Cinema Studies Program so I’m sure you’ll find her insight to the course topics incredibly helpful.”

You waved at the class, offered a few words about how it was this very course that made you realize your love of script writing and screenplays, cracked a joke about how you were Professor Sudeikis’ second choice but still excited for the opportunity. He rolled his eyes but smiled at you from across the room. 

An easy few credits, you decided. A perfectly pleasant way to spend your Tuesday and Thursday evenings: helping students learn the ins and outs of scriptwriting and screen plays? Getting twice weekly interactions with Professor Sudeikis?

You filed your copy of the syllabus into a folder and shut your laptop when he dismissed the class, stole a glance his way when the last lingering student disappeared through the doorway. 

A beat of silence when he checked his phone. 

“Not too bad, right?”

You shook your head. “I thought they’d be a little more intimidating, actually.”

“Undergrads?” He bit back a laugh. 

“I told you I’ve never done this before!”

“Well,” he disconnected his laptop from the projector, “you’re already a natural.”

“Am I?” you coyly fished for a compliment, a challenging smirk in his direction. 

“You showed up, you seemed interested--”

“Good to know it’s a low bar,” you teased.

He shrugged, almost as if to agree. “Maybe--or you’re just good at exceeding expectations.”

Okay--he had to be flirting, right? He wasn’t just like this with his students, at least, not that you’d ever seen. 

You slipped your laptop into a tote bag, slung it over your shoulder as you watched him for a second. You were about to bring it up, but he beat you to it.

“Hey, uh--about the Hinge thing--”

You nodded, hoped to God that your face didn’t give you away: fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I just, you know, I’m your advisor, and--”

“Yeah,” you shook your head. 

“It’s not--”

“I know,” you waved. “I was with Sophie, we had some wine, it was all in good fun,” you nodded.

“Yeah,” he nodded, an unreadable expression, embarrassed, shy, disappointed? He couldn’t be. “Yeah--I just figured, you know, cards on the table.”

“Right.”

You stared at each other for a second, both of you nodding and waiting to see if the other had anything to say. Apparently not. 

“Alright,” you nodded, a slight smile. “Well--I’ll see you on Thursday? Same place?”

“Tomorrow, right? History and Culture?”

“Yes,” you nodded when you remembered. The actual class you were taking with him. “Grayson Hall, 4-0…”

“Three,” he nodded. “403. Hope you did the reading.”

You laughed. “I did.”

He nodded, glanced back up at you quickly. “Of course you did.”

__

Y/N L/N (8:42pm): He brought it up!!!!!

Sophie Mendez (8:46pm): No fucking way!!!! What did he say?

Y/N L/N (8:46pm): Just that he’s my advisor and I said we were just joking cause we had some wine

Sophie Mendez (8:47pm): So you blamed me lol

Y/N L/N (8:48pm): Noooo……..I was honest

Sophie Mendez (8:50pm): 🧐

Sophie Mendez (8:50pm): I think you mean “I pussied out of hitting on him”

Y/N L/N (8:51pm): We didn’t have an actual conversation about it! We just kind of shrugged it off

Y/N L/N (8:51pm): but he did say that we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this semester and I said “I hope that’s not a bad thing” and he said it’s not!!

Sophie Mendez (8:51pm): WOW

Y/N L/N (8:52pm): I know

Sophie Mendez (8:52pm): I love this for you, a professor romance

Y/N L/N (8:52pm): It’s not a romance

Sophie Mendez (8:53pm): ***a professor flirtation

Y/N L/N (8:54pm): More accurate

January 31st, 2018

You bit into an apple and chewed, quietly of course, but it’s not like there wasn’t enough noise in the classroom when Professor Sudeikis turned to see the class. “So what’s our goal with a spec script?”

Quiet for a second, as if they were too nervous to raise a hand and get it wrong. Peer discussions left you with a few minutes to glance around the room, check your email or type up whatever homework assignment he’d decided on. 

“Oh come on,” he laughed a little. “You should have learned this your first year.”

The girl in the front row with short blonde hair--the one who made that face at her friend last week--shot her hand up with an eager smile in his direction. 

“Ultimately to sell it, but also to provide the reader or the studio with a general glance at the story we’re telling.”

“Right,” he nodded. “And what should it not have?”

The same girl raised her hand again. Barf. 

“Camera movements, production and direction notes.”

“Right again.”

You tried not to roll your eyes. Were you jealous? Was an undergrad in her early twenties really igniting a pettiness in you that no 27-year-old should have? A wave of embarrassment crashed when the undergrad smiled at you. 

“Alright--let’s call it there for today. Remember the reading due next week, and we’ll do our first small group critique so bring your specs and we’ll go from there!”

The room was brought back to life, papers shuffled and chatter among the students when Professor Sudeikis walked back over to the table in the front of the class. He glanced at his phone quickly and then peered up at you. “Can you stay after, for a second?”

You were standing now, packing up your own belongings at the table off to the side--the one that separated you from the rest of the lecture hall but the one that kept you a safe distance from him. A nod when you smiled, “yeah, sure.”

So you stood there, scrolled through emails and answered texts about a group project, wondering what you’d make for dinner tonight after your walk home. He answered a few questions when students strolled out, waved them off before he turned to see you. 

“Hi,” he said quickly, a change in tone once he was sure it was just the two of you.

“Hi,” you mirrored him, a small smile when he let out a breath. 

“I just realized, earlier today--I don’t have your phone number.”

Your eyebrows raised involuntarily, lips forming an ‘o’ when he backtracked. 

“You know--so I can text you about TA stuff or grading stuff, or--that type of thing.”

“Right,” you nodded, a few steps towards him. “Of course.”

He picked his phone back up, looked up and met your eyes. 

“It’s 212…555…8495.”

That wasn’t weird, right? He was your advisor, he was your professor. But things worked differently in grad school. You weren’t a kid and you weren’t young, he didn’t have the same amount of power he had with the undergrads. 

You were both adults. One of you with a PhD and one of you pursuing a Masters. Both of you with an interest in Film and TV and this wasn’t that big of a deal.

Your phone dinged in your hand when he clicked his shut. 

212-555-2502 (8:37pm): Jason

He was smiling slightly when you looked back up at him. “You can call me that, by the way.”

“Jason?”

He shrugged playfully, “I mean, it is my name.”

“I’m aware,” you rolled your eyes. 

He moved back to belongings, packed things up slowly while he glanced up at you. “You know, you’re one of the only grad students who calls me Professor.”

“Really?”

“Don’t you hear everyone else call me Jason?”

“Either that or Sudeikis,” you admitted. 

He teased a little: “is my first name too personal for you?”

“No,” you narrowed your eyes. “Just trying to be respectful.”

“Ah,” he nodded, a smirk crawled onto his lips before he broke eye contact. “Well, consider me respected--but, really, Jason is fine.”

“Got it,” you nodded. 

Once his messenger bag was on his shoulder, he pushed his chin towards the door. “Headed out?”

“Yeah,” you moved towards the door, letting him fall in step with you towards the elevator. 

“Do you live close, or--?”

“Yeah, East Village,” you answered. “Ten minute walk.”

His eyes lit up. “Please tell me you’ve been to Pineapple Club--”

“It’s the only place I will drink a martini,” you laughed. “How do you know it?”

He hesitated, like his answer was telling or too close to the vest. “Uh--I’ve actually gone on a couple of dates there.”

You forced a smile, one that hopefully read as: how sweet!

“But their martini’s are…yeah, kick ass, honestly.”

You both laughed and the elevator doors shut. 

“And you live in Brooklyn, right?”

He smiled a little but you clarified: “I just remember you mentioning it last semester or something.”

“Yep,” he nodded. “Been there almost ten years, so--I love it.”

“What’s your favorite part?”

“Of Brooklyn?” He looked at you out of the corner of his eye, thought on it for a second like no one had asked him before. “Good food, good view of the city. Quieter than midtown which is where I used to live.”

“That sounds terrible,” you said honestly. 

“It was.”

The elevator came to a halt and the doors spread apart, you walked out behind him and wondered if his pulse picked up the same way yours did whenever you were in a small space, like that, alone. Probably not. 

“Well,” he turned over his shoulder, offering a two-finger salute. “Have a good night.”

table of contents | talk to me & join the tag list

tag list: @sheerangermany @clarebearr @tedlassostan @hart-kinsella @kahluamystery97 @airplanes924

“Sudeikis is on Hinge?!” You flipped your phone around, eyes wide when Sophie’s lips twisted into a grin and she crawled towards you.

“No fucking way, oh my god,” she reached for the phone, held it steady for a moment when she inspected his profile picture. 

Speckles of gray in his beard, the same tweed hat you’d seen him in a few times on set. Sophie wiggled her brows when you brought your eyes up to meet hers. 

“Don’t make that face,” you warned your best friend, the proverbial devil on your shoulder and the metaphorical rock that helped you navigate grad school. Now her face fell and she looked incredibly unimpressed and fed up with you.

“What?” You laughed, clicking your phone shut and tossing it onto the couch cushion beside you. “Just because I had one stupid sex dream about him doesn’t mean anything.”

She watched you for a second, as if she was waiting for you to break. Just kidding!!!, you’d laugh, followed by a quick admission of your school girl crush. 

“He’s hot as fuck,” she eyed you suspiciously.

Now it was your turn to narrow your eyes at your friend. Was she wrong? No. Were you about to admit that? Double no.

She let out a weighted sigh before she explained. “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge a hot daddy.”

“Okay,” you laughed, picking up your phone again when you crinkled your nose. “That’s the line, you crossed it right there with the ‘d’ word.”

She rolled her eyes, reached for your phone and started tugging. “Give it to me—just swipe right, live a little you giant prude!”

“No way!” You laughed, sure she wasn’t serious. “He’s our professor!”

“Y/N, you haven’t gotten laid in a year and if your hottie advisor is on Hinge there’s no way you’re not shooting your shot.”

Sophie gave one final tug and pulled it right out of your grasp, the app gave a buzz in excitement to signal your successful swipe before she could even do it on purpose. “See?” She giggled, “the universe also wants you to get laid. I didn’t even have to swipe!”

You grabbed it back from her quickly, scanning the screen in a mix of horror and amusement. “And you seriously think one of our professors is a viable option?”

“You’re welcome,” she said with a smirk, ignoring your question. “Worst case scenario you just tell him your cat did it.”

“My cat?” you rolled your eyes, “I don’t think he’s dumb enough to believe that.” You also didn’t have one.

“Calm down, relax, get laid,” she shrugged, looking back at her own phone as if you were being dramatic and obnoxious.

You groaned, stared at his profile for a second as you tried to work out a plan. You figured that if anything, you’d just tell him that Sophie did it. After he had you both in a Film Criticism lecture this fall, there was no way he’d be surprised to learn your loud-mouth friend swiped right in your honor after a few glasses of wine. 

And besides, people swiped right on people they knew all the time, right? A subtle acknowledgement--hi, hello, we know each other. Totally normal.

Or maybe he wouldn’t even see it. Maybe his profile was old and he never even came on this dumb app to begin with. Maybe he was too old to even know how the app worked and he’d be none the wiser. He was 40-something, afterall. 

The sudden appearance of a little green dot by his name was a grim reality: no such luck. 

“Oh fuck me, he’s online,” you muttered. 

“He’s online?!” Sophie came close again, her cheek pushed up against yours when she grinned at the green dot, you let out another groan and covered your eyes in shame. 

“Okay, maybe I should just message him and say it was an accident. Apologize, you know, since it’s wildly inappropriate to swipe right on your academic advisor.”

“Or you could just wait to see if he says anything,” she eyed you innocently.

You glanced at her sideways.“You’re actually psychotic.” 

Your phone buzzed again, this time to inform you of a new match. Your stomach dropped. Sophie smacked you in the arm twice.

Another buzz, a new chat. 

Jason Sudeikis (9:43pm): I guess now is as good a time as ever to let you know your final grade haha

Jason Sudeikis (9:43pm): You got an A

Sophie smacked you in the arm three times now, obviously excited. “Oh my fucking god!”

You laughed, looked up at her again in shock. “What the fuck do I say to that?”

“He’s flirting with you!”

“No he’s not,” you said quickly. “Is he?”

“Uh, I mean, he could have just ignored that you swiped and acted like it never happened. That would be the professional thing to do.”

You thought on it for a second, stared at his words on the screen and wondered where he was. Sitting in his apartment in Brooklyn? Watching TV? Grading final papers? You pictured the rimmed glasses he wore when he read, perched on his nose when he smirked at the screen. 

No way, he wasn’t smirking. He probably thought it was weird and was trying to save you from embarrassment after an otherwise successful semester at NYU. 

“You have to reply!”

“And say what?”

“Something clever, something sexy,” her shoulders bounced a few times in anticipation. 

“Should I?” You smiled a little at your friend, only slightly annoyed by the way she fanned the flames. A wave of butterflies when you looked back at the screen and typed.

Y/N L/N (9:45pm): Will I still get an email from you next week or is this the official notice?

The green dot was still there, you waited a few seconds until a new message popped up. 

Jason Sudeikis (9:46pm): I guess I’ll send an email

Jason Sudeikis (9:46pm): You know, just in good faith 🤷‍♂️

Sophie let out a noise of excitement, she elbowed you in the ribs when she leaned back against the couch, clearly satisfied with herself. “And you thought I was a psychopath.” 

“I still do,” you shot her a glance, unable to fight the smile that tugged at your lips. 

She left you alone at that, scrolled on instagram and complained about an annoying classmate before rinsing your wine glasses in the sink.

You checked the chat on the subway ride home, no response after your last message. 

Y/N L/N (9:49pm): I’ll keep an eye out, then 👀

Oh well. You hung your coat by the door when it latched into place, toed out of your boots in your studio apartment in the East Village. 

At least you got an A.

table of contents | talk to me & join the tag list

“I know,” he laughed, still standing in the center of the room. “But she is a character.”

“She is,” you agreed, reaching for the glass of water once more. Another sip, he watched in silence and you wondered if the weed was a good enough excuse to say your thoughts out loud. You took the chance.

“So--you didn’t like Connor.”

His eyes met yours, unreadable like he couldn’t tell if you were challenging him or just observing. When you let your head fall back against the cushions and your eyes closed, he laughed a little, coming to sit beside you. 

“I don’t know Connor.”

“You didn’t seem to like him,” you opened one eye and watched him for a sign of emotion. His elbows were on his knees, he stared off into space and the clock on the wall ticked to remind you that graduation was hurdling closer with every second. 

He looked over at you now, caught you looking and smiled. “You’re allowed to date him.”

This brought you back to the same solar system. You sat up quickly, your eyes bugged out of your head. “What?”

He shrugged, unsure why this caused such a reaction.

“I just met him tonight--”

“He was obviously interested in you--”

“He’s Max’s little brother!”

“--seeing as he wouldn’t leave you alone all night.”

“You’re the one who was rude at the end of the night to him.”

Both of you were more emotional now, a charge in your words that hadn’t been there before. “Because he seemed to think that you’d end up going home with him.”

“So you were jealous,” you said it quickly, a nod to confirm that your suspicion was true--with or without his input. 

He blinked a few times, shrugged a shoulder and fought the smirk that threatened to rat him out. He stood from the couch and turned, offering his hand to help you up. “Forgive me for thinking that I’m the one you go home with.”

With one look he’d managed to shift courses, avoid the tension that was mounting and defuse the bomb of uncertainty that beeped somewhere in the distance. You laughed a little, felt the thumping in your chest when he nodded towards the bathroom. “Wanna shower?”

March 24th, 2019

He waited on the sidewalk, texted mindlessly when you tried to get your mom off the phone. 

“Okay, mom, yeah—I’ll let you know.”

Your aunt’s birthday, a girls trip to New York, you could take them to the museums!

You’d check your calendar and get back to her, but your lunch break wasn’t the time for this conversation. You promised to call later, smiled apologetically when you turned back to him and started walking. Over toward Bryant Park, a left turn when he asked.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “My mom’s planning a trip to town, she’s got a lot of questions.”

He glanced over at you when you crossed the street, a nod to your shared midwestern roots. “Sounds about right.”

“What are you in the mood for?” You looked up to a neon sign overhead, gyros, falafel, chicken wings.

He slowed, looked inside the windows of a dine-in option. White table cloths and polished servers and he shrugged: why not? 

Unexpected but you allowed it, followed him inside and read over the menus and listened to the specials. Your brows didn’t raise in surprise until he ordered a bottle of champagne. 

He played it off with a shrug once the waiter departed. “You know, for your birthday.”

“Not this again,” you rolled your eyes, hesitant to give too serious of a reply. 

“Not this again,” he repeated your words and rolled his eyes in jest. “Relax, okay? It’s a business lunch.”

Delated. You hid the disappointment on your face when the waiter reappeared with two flutes and the bottle. You watched as the bubbles raced towards the surface, smiled in appreciation and lifted a glass, just like he did.”

Awkward, and both of you knew it. Somewhere along the line the lines got more blurry and now you were six months in and playing pretend didn’t always feel so pretend, somehow. He cleared his throat. 

“Here’s to twenty-eight.”

“Right,” you forced a smile. 

He shifted in his seat at that, kept your gaze for a second before he asked: “are you upset with me?”

Your forehead wrinkled with confusion, the sip of champagne slid down your throat and you almost coughed in surprise. “What? No. Why--why would I be?”

He shrugged, almost like he wished he could backtrack now that he’d seen your reaction. He smiled a little, let his head tilt from side to side when he hesitated. “First I didn’t know it was your birthday, didn’t tell you about the core faculty thing, then it felt like I did a good job of pissing you off the other night--” he glanced around quickly when he realized the conversation topic was risky for such a public setting. “Regarding, y’know, Max’s brother.”

Ah, the moment you’d been waiting for: when he set you up for a slam dunk totally casual response to remind him that two could play whatever game he’d been playing for so long.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. “And the core faculty thing is none of my business.”

Right? Right.

His eyebrows rose at that, he took another sip of champagne and nodded. “Well, Dean Vasquez let me know today that everything should be finalized by the end of the semester and next year it’ll be official.”

You couldn’t help but grin, you leaned forward and put your elbows on the table. “You deserve it,” you nodded, a soft smile. “I’m really proud of you.”

He squirmed a little in the metaphorical spotlight, made a face like it was no big deal. “To twenty-eight and promotions.”

You listened to him talk about it, smiled at the excitement in his voice after you both ordered. The comfort and ease between you felt reassuring and confusing all at once, how did that one kiss land you here?

And better yet, how were you supposed to address whatever this was and whatever it meant when in a few short months your dynamic would shift again?

He reached for his wallet after a while, you didn’t have forever and there’d already be too many questions about what took so long and where you’d eaten.

But you couldn’t let him pay for this like it meant something, couldn’t let yourself feel that level of hope or excitement. “You don’t have to pay,” you grabbed your own wallet, “let me split it with you.”

“Y/N, it’s fine,” he smiled. 

“No, I mean it--”

“It was your birthday,” he reminded, eyes expectant as he waited to see how you’d challenge him.

“Yeah but,” the words pushed past your lips and landed on the table with an awkward thud. “You don’t have to care about that.”

He shrugged one shoulder, simple, quietly, like he didn’t really know what to say except for the truth. “But I do.”

You shook your head, a reminding smile: “you’re my advisor.”

“You’re my student,” he nodded, comfortable with the words and labels and…now he was on to you. “And I know I shouldn’t play favorites, but--can’t always help it.”

Your face felt hot, he caught your eye and smirked, handed his card to the waiter and then read an email from Charlie outloud. You walked back to 30 Rock, tried your best to shed whatever glow the lunchtime longing had left on your cheeks. 

But you were metaphorically fucked. The constant push and pull had slithered into your brain and having sex with your professor was only half the problem. 

The other half? Deciding what to do about it. 

April 5th, 2019

Your phone was buzzing over and over in the pocket of your jeans. Not a phone call, not emails. Texts. And at this frequency, you knew without checking that it was Max in the group chat. 

After what felt like the millionth notification you slid it out and eyed it, careful not to distract from the final presentation that Shayna Hillbringer had undoubtedly worked so hard on. 

The classroom was dark for Shayna’s presentation and the semester was winding down. For third year graduating students, the start of April also meant the beginning of the end: final projects and papers and job applications as you hurtled toward the unknown.

Which is why, on this particular Friday night, you were sat in Jason’s classroom listening to Shayna ramble on about her experience working at an advertising agency. 

It was fine. She was nice enough and the presentation was good enough. But of course you couldn’t focus with your phone blowing up as if the East Village was on fire.

Max Prescott (6:13pm): I’m hungry

Max Prescott (6:14pm): Are we doing anything tonight? 

Max Prescott (6:14pm): Anyone want to grab dinner?

Sophie Mendez (6:14pm): I’m down! Finishing up stuff on set though, be done around 7

Naomi Halter (6:15pm): I just got home from work 

Naomi Halter (6:15pm): You guys can come here! Take out? 

Max Prescott (6:16pm): omg ok, let me get my life together

Max Prescott (6:16pm): Y/N????? Are you ditching us for daddy?

Sophie Mendez (6:16pm): Lmao (i’ll come when I’m out)

Naomi Halter (6:17pm): She has class, right?

Max Prescott (6:17pm): Yeah she does

Max Prescott (6:17pm): With daddy

You were about to thumb out a scathing reply, rub it in Max’s face that he was merely jealous of the fact that you were getting laid and he wasn’t. 

But another text appeared at the top of your screen.

Jason Sudeikis (6:17pm): Can you at least pretend to pay attention?

You looked up at him quickly, but his eyes were already back on Shayna and her slide about storyboards for short-duration advertisements. What an ass.

You figured it’d be best to ignore all of them. Anything you replied to the group was just adding fuel to the fire, and replying to Jason’s text felt, well…not worth it. You decided that giving him a dirty look the next time he glanced in your direction would be good enough. 

So you put your phone on do not disturb and did your best to stay focused. Shayna’s presentation finished early and for that he dismissed you all with ten minutes to spare. You took your time packing up, tried not to make it obvious that you, without a doubt, would be the last student in the room. 

Maybe the others were somewhat aware of the relationship you had with him. Not the sexual one that happened behind closed doors (or in his office), but the mentor-mentee dynamic that this all stemmed from in the first place. 

You congratulated Shayna on the completion of her coursework, loitered in the corner when she collected a graded rubric from Jason. Eventually the room thinned out and you were too buried in your phone to notice.

Y/N L/N (6:52pm): Just getting out of class, I can come by and hang for a while!

“Did you even catch a word she said?” He was eyeing you now from across the room. He slipped his laptop into his messenger bag and smirked, waiting to see what type of reaction he’d get. 

“I was paying attention--but I had Max being a pain in my ass in the group chat.”

“I looked over there and you were reading that thing like a novella,” he teased.

You took a few steps closer to his desk in the corner of the room, offered a challenging smirk when he leaned against the side of it. 

“I can’t believe you’re trying to go all professor on me right now.”

“Lest we forget that’s my actual job title,” he joked. But he wasn’t finished. He looked up at you now and shrugged. “I can’t let you get away with everything.”

“Well, professor,” you tilted your head to the side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

He laughed, reached for his jacket that was slung over the back of his chair. “I’ll let it slide this time.”

“Good,” you chuckled. “I don’t do well with punishment.”

His eyebrows quirked at that, you immediately rolled your eyes at the dumb look on his face. “I mean from teachers.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind to get in trouble too much,” he sat on the edge of the desk now, amused by where this was headed. “You give off way more of a goody-two-shoes vibe.”

“Hi--” Shayna’s voice caused both of your heads to snap towards the door. “Sorry--I just--I realized I left my thumb-drive on the podium,” she took a few awkward steps into the room, the look on her face told you she was confused by the distance between you, or, really, the lack thereof. 

Jason cleared his throat and stood, suddenly back into the version of himself you’d become less familiar with the more time you spent with him. “No problem--we were just talking about Y/N’s project.”

Shayna smiled, almost like she knew his explanation was more for himself than for her. She held up the thumb-drive to show she’d been successful. “Have a good weekend,” she waved over her shoulder. 

Once she turned down the hall you both deflated, Jason blew a puff of air from his mouth and rubbed at the base of his neck. “Okay--well, uh--I also am, you know, heading out.”

“Right,” you smirked a little, why was it a turn on to see him so flustered?

He caught your eye for a second but shouldered his bag. “Are you--uh--leaving too?”

“Yeah,” you threw a thumb towards the door. “I’m heading to Naomi’s.”

“Oh,” he nodded. “Then I won’t invite you for a drink.”

You walked with him now towards the classroom door with raised eyebrows, intrigued by his sudden change in demeanor.  “You were going to invite me for a drink?”

He shrugged, “Maybe. But you have plans,” he smiled.

“I do,” you confirmed. “And I’d never hear the end of it if I ditched them for you.”

He laughed, turned left with you towards the elevators. “Wouldn’t want that.”

So you waved awkwardly once you were outside the main doors, gave the vague promise of we’ll talk this weekend. You figured that neither of you knew why, but you both knew you would. Somehow, someway, for some reason. Maybe you just liked each other.

But that thought felt too real and too wrong and the subway ride to Naomi’s left you sitting in silence on a crowded train with nothing but your own thoughts.

They had a glass of wine waiting for you once you pushed the door open, a movie on and pizza on the counter. When you sunk into the couch beside Max, he turned to see you. 

“Guys…can I have some advice?” You said quickly, pouncing on the opportunity when Naomi looked over at you. Sophie grabbed the remote and paused the movie, Max straightened up and kept his eyes on you. 

You laughed a little, apparently this was out of character. After a pause for dramatic effect, you admitted: “I have no idea what’s going to happen with me and Jason after we graduate.”

Silence. Max looked to Sophie, Sophie looked to Naomi. 

Naomi shrugged, eyes wide at your confession. “What do you want to happen?”

There it was. The same question that had been circling your consciousness for months and weeks and days on end. You traced the pattern of Naomi’s sofa. 

“That’s a loaded question.”

Max crossed his legs. “You’re still going to work with him, so--things are still…off limits, right?”

“They’re a lot less off limits as co-workers than as professor-student,” Sophie held up a finger.

“Right, I mean--he had a meeting with Charlie last week. Said NBC should get me my offer letter by the end of April.”

When you first kissed him you didn’t expect to wind up here. You never expected that you’d have any reason to see him post-grad and you certainly didn’t ever think you’d be his co-worker. 

“You might hate me for saying this,” Naomi prefaced. “But somewhere along the lines it feels like this became a lot more serious than anyone thought it would be.”

You stared at her, nervous. “...What do you mean?”

Sophie and Max wondered too.  

“Well, you guys are apparently having sleepovers now,” she looked over to Sophie. Of course Sophie had immediately filled Max and Naomi in. “Like, regularly.”

“Twice,” you said. Wait. No. “Three times?”

Max’s eyes doubled in size, hearing a number slapped on there made it all real. “And you guys haven’t talked about after graduation?”

“No,” you said honestly. “Only in the work context.”

Sophie had been quiet. Her eyes were narrowed and you knew--based solely on the look on her face--that the wheels were turning. “Do you want to stop sleeping with him?”

The real answer was no. Of course not. But the responsible, mature, graduating adult figured that something like this might be better left in the past. 

“I don’t know.”

“Elaborate, please,” Max pushed. That wasn’t a good enough answer.

You let out a dramatic sigh. “I mean, I like hooking up with him. I like spending time with him and you know, the sex is really good.”

They all liked that answer, smiles spread across the room but you held up a hand. “But it feels--” you stopped.

“It feels what?” Sophie asked, eager to hear where you were going.

“How am I supposed to bring this up to him? Admit that maybe I have some emotions or feelings about…him…or us, and--see? I don’t even know what to say! All of that would freak him the fuck out.”

Sophie was unimpressed, her mouth hung open like she thought you were being fucking stupid. “Aren’t we past the stage where you try not to spook him? You know, pretend you’re more normal than you are?”

“No!” You said quickly, shocked by her implication. “How would we be past that stage?”

“Because you guys aren’t just casually hooking up anymore,” Max looked at you like you had three heads. 

“We’re not?” You asked.

“Did he buy you a birthday gift?” Max asked.

“No.”

“He didn’t do anything?” 

“We went to lunch--he got a bottle of champagne. He said it was--I don’t know--partially for my birthday.”

Sophie smirked. 

“But that doesn’t mean he has feelings for me,” you defended. 

“How often do you guys text?” Naomi asked. 

Jesus. You blinked a few times but then shrugged. You didn’t mean to put yourself on trial by asking for some feedback. “Not every day. Most days. Usually about work or school stuff.”

“I’ve literally been there when you guys just text hi,” Sophie mocked you and dropped her voice a few octaves to insinuate romance.

“Well we’re human,” you shot back at her. 

“Okay,” Naomi butt in, this was obviously getting off topic and you appreciated the fact that at least one of them wanted to stay on track. “So--you have feelings for him.”

“Is that a question?” You narrowed your eyes.

“No,” Max laughed, then Sophie and Naomi did too.

You didn’t say anything, fought the smile that tried to creep onto your face when you groaned. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?!”

“Talk to him,” Sophie nearly yelled. “Tell him!”

“I would rather fail every class ever,” you decided.

Naomi ignored your theatrics. “Have you guys talked about Cannes?” 

“What about it?”

“The fact that he’s basically bringing you as his date,” Sophie wiggled her eyebrows. 

“No,” you pointed. “It’s an independent study.”

“That he’s grading,” Max reminded. 

“So what?” You made a face at him. “Just because I’m sleeping with him doesn’t mean I get special treatment.”

“Okay,” Sophie let out a sharp laugh, yeah fucking right. 

“You probably get some special treatment,” Naomi tried, always more delicate than Soph. 

“I mean, maybe,” you said. “I don’t want it, though. I don’t want people to think that I’m the teacher’s pet.”

“Oh, sugar pie honey bunch,” Max cooed at you, a pitying look on his face when he clutched his heart over his sweatshirt. “Everybody already knows that.”

You groaned again, leaned your head back on the sofa and closed your eyes in turmoil. “Nevermind, forget I even asked for anyone’s advice. I will just die here on this couch and--”

“Hold on,” Naomi tried to help everything settle. “Do you think it’s worth it to talk with him about all of this? Like, if you actually want this to be mature and adult-like, don’t you think that’s probably your best option?”

“I don’t know,” you said with a sigh, ready to drop it for the evening. “I’ll think about it.”

April 9th, 2019

He was frowning when you knocked, brow furrowed in concentration before his eyes flickered up to the doorway. 

“Hi,” you said quietly. 

“Hi,” his eyes trailed down your legs and back. 

You hadn’t texted with him over the weekend, decided to give him some space and take some of your own. There was also the petty and dumb part of you that was waiting to see if he would text you. Most of Sunday was spent avoiding your phone and the sad reality that he hadn’t.

Besides, you had Naomi’s words playing on loop and other final projects to finish. You spent Monday on set of another NBC show, counting down the minutes until you’d get to hop back in the writer’s room and do what you actually loved. 

So on Tuesday you figured you’d test the water.

“I know we don’t have an appointment or anything,” you shrugged in the doorway. “But, I wanted to see if you had a minute to just look over the first draft of my paper, it’s just the analysis of Sarai’s first two features.”

He leaned back in his desk now, nodded when he outstretched his hand for the paper in yours. Staples in the top left corner, you’d already marked it up on the subway with corrections and edits but figured his input would only help. You know, seeing as he’d be grading it anyway, just like Max had reminded. 

You shut the door behind you, let it click into place as you sat across from him. He looked at the paper quickly, then back at you. “Can I get it back to you tomorrow, or even Friday, maybe?”

“Sure,” you nodded, wondering how far to push. Something was obviously up. “Is, uh, is everything okay?”

“Yes, yeah,” he nodded, bringing a finger to his lips. “Just have a lot of papers to grade for one of my undergrad seminars and have a meeting with Charlie later today to get an update on casting decisions.”

Things had been moving along with the show. The executive team was put together, auditions had started and some rolles already filled. Cameras were supposed to start rolling in June, hopefully. 

You stood and kept his gaze, smirked a little when you rounded his desk and sat on the edge, right in front of him. He smirked up at you, reassuring when he stood and let his hands hold onto your thighs. “Just a shitty week.”

“Well, I know something that might make you feel better,” you purred, hand grazing the outline of his cock beneath his khakis. He smirked a little, leaned forward to let his mouth find yours. 

The same explosion of excitement, warmth pooled in your belly and your hands reached up to pull him closer. He smiled into your mouth, let his fingers trail up towards your panties. You let out an eager moan, one that squeaked from the back of your throat when his thumb came into contact with your clit, still separated by fabric.

But then he pulled back, cleared his throat and wiped his lips. A smudge of your lipstick on his mouth, he could see it on his hand and shook his head. 

“Sorry,” he panted. “I, uh--I just don’t know if we should right now.”

He stepped back from between your legs, the same skirt you wore that first time he used his fingers. The wood of his desk was still cool on the backs of your thighs, he brought his eyes to yours and looked guilty. 

“Okay.”

“Sorry--”

“It’s fine,” you hopped down and licked your lips, arousal still coursing through you when you shrugged. 

He walked over to the other side of his desk, seemingly deep in thought before he swiveled. He eyed you for a second, hands in his pockets, hesitant.

“Can we talk for a second?”

You nodded, lips slightly parted when your heartbeat climbed. Oh fuck.

“I think we should talk about Cannes.”

Had you accidentally left him a 15-minute long voicemail that recorded your entire conversation with your friends? You played dumb. “...What about it?” 

He glanced up at you quickly, the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, immediate relief when you realized he wasn’t angry or upset. “Well, about both of us going on this trip.”

“Right,” you nodded obediently. You were following.

“And how obviously it might be fun to, you know, hang out in Cannes—“

“But,” you watched him. 

“But we have to be really careful.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. 

“I just don’t want either of us to, I don’t know, get in trouble or look bad and after Friday when Shayna almost saw us--”

“We weren’t gonna have sex right there in a classroom,” you smiled a little, challenging his anxiety. 

“I know,” he said, still serious. “But, this is all still really fucking risky no matter how much we like it or how normal it is now.”

You digested his words, nodded slowly when you watched him. He was clearly more worked up than you--and in a different world, maybe you’d have asked him why or what you could do to reassure him.

You also wanted to be smart. You didn’t want him to lose his job and the fact that you’d made it this far without getting caught was almost impossible to believe. But the topic of conversation needled you, he was still in the center of the room and you were still unsure how to broach the question that seemed to hover over the vintage rug in his office. 

You didn’t have answers. You didn’t have anything to say that would manage to avoid what was beginning to feel like a ticking time bomb.

You cleared your throat, smiled at him softly when you shrugged. “We don’t have to…keep doing this if you don’t want to.”

Maybe now was the right time to stop. Graduation, his promotion, it all made sense.

He nodded slowly, let out a defeated breath when he finally cracked a tiny smile. “The problem is that I want to.”

You smirked, appreciative of the way he tipped his hat and gave a peek behind the curtain. Got it. He was as confused as you were.

But there was no way--right here, right now--that you were going to address the elephant in the room. So instead of being brave and saying it all out loud, you took a step closer to him in the center of the room. “Well,” you sighed, eyes flickering to the door to warn of your upcoming departure. “Let me know when you come up with a solution.”

You felt his head turn once you walked away, his eyes watched with intrigue and confusion and excitement. But you kept walking, calling over your shoulder when you slipped out the doorway: “And what you think about my analysis so far!”

April 18th, 2019

You knocked on the door and wondered if Javier was already inside. Some TV show they were both obsessed with, a conversation at work the other day led to an invitation over to Jason’s to watch when they learned you’d never even heard of it. Oh right, Javier had teased. I always forget you were born in the 90s. 

He tugged the door open and smiled, stepped aside for you to come in from the cool spring air. “Hi,” he greeted. “Did you see my text?”

“No?” You shrugged out of your coat, hung it on a hook near the door. 

“Javier bailed--his baby has a fever.”

You’d seen the text come through but you were already on your way, took advantage of the fact that he’d never uninvite you. 

“Oh,” you feigned disappointment. “I must have been too far underground to have any service.”

Whatever. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He smirked and locked the door, “I won’t force you to watch the greatest movie of all time if you’re not in the mood.”

“I came all the way here!” You teased, following him towards the kitchen. He had a glass of wine already poured, you couldn’t help but notice that it was the same bottle--a new one--but the one you said you’d liked at his Christmas party. 

Maybe he’d gotten it for you. 

“However will you survive an evening with me?” he made a face over his shoulder, handed you the glass of wine that, until now, had been sitting on his counter. 

He watched you take a sip. 

“What?” You asked.

He laughed a little, “I feel bad that Javier canceled and you came all the way here.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Good think we’ve spent plenty of time alone.”

You didn’t mean for that to sound as sexual as you did. A flush to your cheeks when his eyebrows rose. “Yeah?”

“I just mean--you know--it’s not awkward.”

He laughed, shook his head but made his way towards the couch in the living room. You followed behind him, wondered what you’d talk about and if it would eventually lead to fucking him on the couch or even in the kitchen. 

“Well, let’s make sure this one doesn’t get back to Dean Vasquez, alright?”

“Hey--at least I’m twenty-eight now.”

He settled onto the couch and looked up at you, amused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Somehow, for some reason, you were bold enough to go there. Maybe it was the wine or the dim lighting or Javier’s absence. “Well, if I was older or if you were younger I think there’d be less scandal,” you shrugged.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, an offended look on his face. “You think I’m old!”

“No,” you laughed. “I mean, you are, but I just think 15 years is significant.”

“Here I was this whole time thinking the problem is that I’m your superior in almost every way,” he said sarcastically. 

“That’s the hot part,” you teased, reached over to poke him in the stomach. He shrunk from your touch, grabbed your finger in his hand and held it for a second.

He let it go, let out a breath and shifted beside you. 

“I think the age thing is hot too,” he quipped. “I think all of it’s hot, honestly.”

You laughed in agreement. “Yeah,” you nodded. “Me too.”

But he made no move. He didn’t reach a hand over to tease you, didn’t beg to taste you or anything that most of your encounters with him typically entailed. 

One episode turned into two and then he turned to you on the couch. “I don’t know if this is weird—“ he laughed a little. A genuinely nervous look in his eyes when he looked up to see you. 

“So if it is, let’s just rewind like thirty seconds to the universe in which I never brought this up, okay?”

Now he smiled at his own joke, he knew he’d saved himself from a moment of vulnerability. 

“But do you wanna smoke weed?”

Your lips crept into a smile, you tried to fight it when he watched you with an expectant smirk. 

“Duh,” you laughed. “Yeah.”

He stood, took a few steps towards the hallway before disappearing behind the door you knew was his. You looked around the dark living room, decorated decently for an early 40s bachelor-pad. 

He reappeared with a joint in hand, nodded his head towards the balcony off the window overlooking the street. A fire-escape really, the same one from his Christmas party.

You followed him out and, took his hands when you stepped out and onto the iron structure. 

You wiped your hands on your jeans and looked around at the night sky. He stood on the other end of a small landing, held up a lighter and shielded it from the wind.

He took a hit, held his breath and watched you watch a blinking plane overhead. Early April was starting to warm up, you could feel it in nights like these.

He exhaled, you looked over at him expectantly. 

“This is my balcony,” he gestured around, laughed at himself when he passed the joint. 

“So I’ve heard,” you teased, held it up to your lips and inhaled. You held your breath and counted to five. 

He watched and smiled when you coughed a little. “What was your time like at CNN?”

You shrugged your shoulders a little once you’d gained composure. “Fine, great starting point, but being a PA wasn’t for me.”

“Yeah it doesn’t seem easy,” he nodded.

“It brought me to NYU so for that it definitely gets some points.”

He was smiling when you looked up at him. Your heart did a flip so you decided to change the topic: “How’d you end up at NYU anyway?”

“Uh, well—“ he laughed a little, almost awkwardly. “I needed a fresh start in 2013. Had a rough go of it career wise for a bit but I also—uh—I had split up with my ex-wife.”

“Oh,” you nodded, eyes narrowing with intrigue. That was a bombshell. “I didn’t know you were married once.”

Not that it bothered you. But it did feel like a curious detail to disclose after all this time.

He smirked, flicked out the joint and met your eyes. “Yeah, well, up until this year—why would you?”

You laughed a little, brazen and buzzed. “You mean you don’t tell most of your students about your love life or say their pussy’s so wet?”

He smiled wider at that, “I don’t.”

“Got it,” you nodded and smiled. “That’s good to know, like, you know, STD-wise.”

He rolled his eyes at your teasing. “Oh come on,” he laughed. “You say that as if I’m sleeping with every woman in Brooklyn.”

“No I’m not,” you defended, laughing when he shook his head. “I don’t know what you do in your personal time.”

“Well,” he sighed, still amused but more serious now. “It’s not that—I’m not sleeping with every woman in Brooklyn.”

“I’m glad,” you admitted. “Being one of many would make all of this less cool, for sure.”

“Oh,” he nodded, eyeing you suspiciously. “So being younger than me and feeling special is what does it for you.”

You watched as he took another hit, smiled a little. “You mean to tell me that you wouldn’t be pissed off if I told you I was sleeping with Will too?”

He couldn’t speak, held an inhale when he tried not to laugh. He shook his head and looked away when you giggled. 

He let out his breath quickly, coughed a tiny bit but then clarified. “I’d be livid.”

“Right,” you nodded. A pause when you felt the question creeping into his mind. “...I’m not, like, seeing anyone else.”

He nodded. “Me neither.”

A cartwheel in your stomach when you realized what that meant: accidentally exclusive. 

It almost came up after your birthday, but his smooth redirection in your living room ended in shower sex, not a conversation like this.

“Okay,” you reached for his joint. “Last one.” 

You took it and inhaled, let him watch you when the smoke filled your lungs and you smiled in the night breeze. You followed him inside eventually, finished your glass of wine on the couch and laughed when he told you about the first time he met Javier. 

Another episode and now your feet were on his lap. His arms draped over your legs, he tugged at the loose thread on your jeans and you wondered what it would be like to make breakfast for dinner together.

But when you checked your phone it was 1am, so you knew it was time to leave. Your turn to walk up to the line and then step back, a glance over your shoulder when you stood. 

“Bedtime,” you said, lifting your phone with the uber app open.

“Yeah,” he stood, a nod when he scratched the back of his neck. “You’re good to Uber?”

“Yeah,” you headed for the coat rack by his front door and plucked yours off of a hook. “Thanks for letting me hang out,” you joked, smiled at him when he rolled his eyes. 

“Like I was gonna kick you out,” he laughed. 

“I’ll see you at work,” you had a hand on the doorknob. 

He nodded, like he respected your choice to leave, like he liked the way you said it.

table of contents | talk to me & join the tag list | the playlist

tag list: @sheerangermany @clarebearr @tedlassostan @hart-kinsella @kahluamystery97 @airplanes924 @trulymadlykiki @thisismysecondrodeo @mypugsley @jng4kook @msolbesg @stankface @ljej95 @ivetastedbloodanditissweet @pascal-reyes @paola-carter @rubberduckingaro @golden-hoax @ccbb2222 @caplikeme @outofthecradlex @mackenzmeme @reann-shitposting @very-berry-harry @winter-soldier-007 @tinydeskwriter @femmel90 @shawnsblue @iwanttogoeverywhereplease @sillyeverydays @goodbyesaneworld @sillyeverydays @littlet-holmes @mindibindi @crazygirlinthisworld @december3rd @he4l-me @kianas-fics