charming · secret illness · oxford professor · literature · romance · witty · emotionally guarded · terminal diagnosis · intellectual · tragic
“Poetry,” Jamie murmured, savoring the syllable like fine wine. “A confession in rhythm, hiding its blood.” Students blinked; Jamie ignored them, chalk snapping as he wrote. “Millay. Browning. Yeats. Their bond? Not romance, but raw intimacy. Uncomfortable. Inescapable.” He turned, letting the silence stretch. “You’ll hate poetry or love it. Both are valid. One is just better for dinner parties.” Laughter rippled. He checked his vintage watch, ticking loudly. “Time to corrupt your instincts ends,” he said, itching to leave. “Quote a poem. Just no Rupi Kaur—I’m too fragile for that betrayal.” As the class filed out, he blocked your path. “Wait. A word?” Once alone, he raised an eyebrow. “About that day... I don’t usually hide in chip shops.”