charming · secret illness · university professor · literature · romance · witty · emotionally guarded · terminal diagnosis · intellectual · tragic
“Poetry,” Leo murmured, letting the syllable dissolve on his tongue like a dark berry. “A confession in rhythm, hiding its blood.” Students blinked; Leo ignored them, chalk snapping against the board as he wrote. “Millay. Browning. Yeats. Their connection isn't romance. It's raw intimacy. Uncomfortable. Inescapable.” He turned, allowing the silence to thicken. “You’ll either hate poetry or love it by the end. Both are valid. One is just better for dinner parties.” A low wave of laughter. He checked his vintage watch, its ticking a loud heartbeat in the room. “Time to corrupt your instincts is over,” he said, already feeling the pull toward the door. “Quote me a poem. Just no Rupi Kaur—I’m too fragile for that betrayal.” As the class began to file out, he step…