Chapter 2 : First Tutoring Session

Tuesday. 6:55 PM.

I stood at my apartment window. Watched the street below.

Students moved in groups. Laughing. Normal.

My intercom buzzed right at seven.

"Come up," I said.

Footsteps on the stairs. Steady.

I opened the door before he knocked.

Lucas stood there. Backpack. Same slightly-small clothes. Hair messy like he''d run.

"Right on time," I said.

"Wouldn''t want to be late." That smile.

He stepped inside. The scent came with him—damp earth, crushed pine, something wild underneath.

I closed the door. The click echoed.

We moved to the living room. Books on the coffee table. Wordsworth. Keats. Coleridge.

"Where should I sit?" he asked.

"Sofa''s fine."

He sat at one end. I took the other. Space between us.

I opened Wordsworth. "We''ll start with ''Tintern Abbey.''"

He leaned forward. Elbows on knees. "Okay."

I started explaining. The poem''s structure. Its themes. Nature as memory. Memory as redemption.

He listened. Nodded. Asked questions.

Smart questions. Too smart for a sixteen-year-old.

"Have you read this before?" I asked.

"Just in class." He met my eyes. Gold flecks bright. "But I''ve been thinking about it."

"Thinking what?"

"How memory changes things." He looked at the poem. "How we remember things differently than they were. Make them better. Or worse."

My chest tightened. "Yes."

We kept going. The clock ticked.

7:30 PM.

His first "accident" happened when he reached for the book.

His hand brushed mine. Warm skin. Steady pulse.

"Sorry," he said. Didn''t move his hand away.

"It''s fine." I moved mine.

We kept reading.

7:45 PM.

He leaned close to point at a line. His shoulder pressed against mine. Body heat through our shirts.

"Here," he said. Finger on the page. "What does he mean by ''the still, sad music of humanity''?"

I explained. Voice steady. Heart not.

He stayed close. Scent intensified. Like forest after rain.

8:00 PM.

My phone buzzed. Chris.

I ignored it.

"Should you get that?" Lucas asked.

"It can wait."

"Friend again?"

"Yes."

"He worries about you."

"He shouldn''t."

Lucas smiled. That knowing smile. "Everyone needs someone to worry about them."

We went back to the poem.

8:15 PM.

Second "accident."

He "slipped" reaching for his water. Hand landed on my arm. Fingers wrapped around my wrist. Where I''d touched him last time.

"Sorry," he said. Didn''t let go immediately.

His grip was firm. Strong. Too strong for a teenager.

"Careful," I said.

He released. "Clumsy."

We both knew it wasn''t true.

8:30 PM.

We finished Wordsworth. Moved to Keats.

"Beauty is truth," Lucas read aloud. Voice low. "Truth beauty."

He looked at me. "Do you believe that?"

"In poetry?"

"In life."

I hesitated. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes isn''t enough." He leaned back. Stretched. Shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. "I think it''s either true or it''s not. No sometimes."

"That''s very... absolute."

"My family is like that." He looked at his hands. "Absolute. No sometimes."

"Your brother?"

"All of them." He met my eyes. "Old families have old rules. No exceptions."

"What happens if you break the rules?"

He smiled. Dark. "You don''t want to know."

The air thickened. Charged.

My phone buzzed again. Chris. Persistent.

"I should get that," I said.

Lucas nodded.

I answered. "Chris, I''m tutoring—"

"Tutoring my ass." Chris''s voice sharp. "I can hear him. Who is he?"

"A student. I told you."

"At your apartment. At night. Alone." Chris paused. "Aiden, this is dangerous."

"I know what I''m doing."

"Do you?" Chris''s voice dropped. "Because it sounds like you don''t."

"I''ll call you later." I hung up.

Lucas watched. "He''s angry."

"He''s worried."

"He should be." Lucas stood. Stretched again. Back arched. Shirt rode up. Showed a strip of skin. Lean muscle. "This is dangerous."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it''s true." He walked to the window. Looked out. "I''m dangerous."

I stood. Joined him at the window. Not close. Not far.

"How?" I asked.

He turned. Gold eyes serious. "In ways you can''t imagine."

We stood there. Silent.

The streetlights came on outside. Cast yellow pools on the pavement.

"I should go," he said. Didn''t move.

"Same time next week?" I asked.

He smiled. That transformative smile. Young again. "You want me to come back?"

"Yes."

"Even though I''m dangerous?"

"Especially because."

He laughed. A real laugh. Young. Surprised. "You''re more interesting than I thought, Mr. Wilson."

He gathered his things. Backpack slung over one shoulder.

At the door, he paused. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why did you agree to this? Really."

I thought about the loneliness. The years of hiding. The careful construction of a life that felt like someone else''s.

"Because you asked," I said.

He nodded. Like that made sense. "Sometimes that''s enough."

He opened the door. Then turned back.

One more "accident."

He reached out. Brushed a piece of lint from my shoulder. Fingers lingered. Traced the fabric.

"See you next week," he said.

Then he was gone.

I stood in the empty apartment. Scent fading.

Shoulder where he''d touched me burned.

I walked to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.

Face flushed. Eyes bright.

Dangerous.

I smiled at my reflection.

For the first time in years, I felt alive.

***

Wednesday morning. Faculty meeting.

I sat in the back. Tried to focus.

Chris slid into the seat next to me. "We need to talk."

"Later."

"Now." He kept his voice low. "Who is he?"

"A student. Lucas Blackwood."

"Sixteen?"

"Yes."

Chris closed his eyes. "Aiden. What are you doing?"

"I''m tutoring him."

"At your apartment. At night."

"He asked."

"And you said yes." Chris opened his eyes. Looked at me. Really looked. "Why?"

I didn''t answer.

Chris sighed. "You''re lonely. I get it. But this... this is a line you can''t uncross."

"I know."

"Do you?" Chris leaned closer. "Because once you cross it, there''s no going back. Your career. Your life. Everything."

"I know."

"Then stop."

I looked at my hands. Thought of Lucas''s smile. The gold in his eyes. The scent of forest.

"I can''t," I said.

Chris stared. Then nodded. Slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I can''t stop you." He stood. "But when this blows up—and it will—I''ll be there to pick up the pieces."

He walked away.

I sat through the meeting. Didn''t hear a word.

My phone buzzed. A text.

Unknown number: Looking forward to next week. -L

I saved the number. Didn''t ask how he got mine.

I texted back: Me too.

The line was already crossed. Might as well keep walking.

***

Thursday. Lucas''s class.

He sat front center. Watched me.

During discussion, our eyes met. Held.

A student asked a question. I answered. Voice steady.

Lucas smiled. Small. Private.

After class, he lingered again.

"Tuesday," he said.

"Tuesday," I agreed.

He leaned close. Whispered. "I dreamed about the poems."

His breath warm on my ear. Scent of forest.

"What did you dream?" I asked.

"Golden eyes in the dark." He pulled back. Smiled. "Watching."

He left.

I leaned against my desk. Heart pounding.

Golden eyes.

Just like my dream.

Coincidence.

Had to be.