Chapter 9
Don't Blink (Or You'll Fall For Your Tutor)
Sebastian
The auditorium's too damn big.
That's my first thought walking in, even though I've been in here dozens of times for lectures. But those times I'm sitting in the dark, taking notes, invisible. Not standing on the stage like some kind of performing monkey.
Gavin's already here because, of course, he is. Sprawled in a front-row seat like he owns the place, still in his practice gear. Mesh shorts and a tank top that's doing obscene things to his shoulders. His hair's damp, and curling at the edges.
Don't look at his thighs. Don't look at his thighs. Don't—
Fuck. Those thighs could crack walnuts. Each one's probably the size of my entire torso. When he shifts to grab his backpack, the muscles flex, and I actually forget how to breathe for a second.
"Hey!" He grins up, noticing me, all sunshine and smiles. "How's it going?"
"Fine." The word comes out clipped. I adjust my messenger bag and head for the stage. "Let's get this over with."
"Wow, such enthusiasm." But he's laughing as he says it, hauling himself up to follow me. "Nice shirt, by the way. Those angel things creep me out."
I glance down at my Weeping Angels tee. "They're supposed to. That's the point."
"Yeah? What happens if you blink?"
"They quantum-lock you into the past and feed off your potential temporal energy."
He blinks at me. Once. Twice. "So... they eat your time?"
"Essentially, yes."
"Cool." And he means it, which is... unexpected. "Okay, so. You ready to practice your presentation?"
My stomach immediately tries to crawl up my throat. "Sure. Yes. Obviously."
He settles into a front-row seat again, notebook ready. The empty seats behind him seem to multiply, row after row of potential judgment. My hands are already sweating.
"So what's the topic again?"
"Neuroplasticity in addiction recovery." I pull out my note cards, trying to ignore how they shake slightly. "Seven minutes."
"Got it. Whenever you're ready."
I clear my throat. Look down at my cards. Look up at the empty seats. Four hundred capacity, according to the fire code sign. Four hundred people who could be staring at me, judging me, thinking I'm—
"The brain's capacity for..." My voice cracks. I clear my throat again. "The brain's capacity for reorganization..."
The words on my cards blur. My chest feels tight. This is stupid. I know this material. I've researched it for months. But all I can think about is standing here during interviews, fumbling, looking like an idiot who doesn't deserve…
"You okay up there?"
"I'm fine." It comes out sharp. Defensive. "The brain's capacity for reorganization following substance abuse represents a critical area of neuroscience research."
I sound like a fucking robot. A malfunctioning robot. My voice echoes in the space, and I can practically see it filled with people. Professors. Admissions committees. All of them wondering why they're wasting their time on someone who can't even—
"The prefrontal cortex..." The words stick. My throat's closing up. Heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "The prefrontal..."
"Doc,"
"I said I'm fine!" But I'm not. Can't breathe properly. The auditorium's too big and too small at the same time. My skin feels too tight, and why is it so fucking hot in here?
I hear movement, but I'm staring at my cards, trying to force the words to make sense. Then warmth, in front of me. Not touching, just... there.
"Hey." Gavin's voice is different. Softer. "Look at me for a sec."
"I need to—"
"I know. Just for a second."
I look up. He's closer than expected, those brown eyes steady and calm. No judgment there. Just... concern?
"The angels got you," he says, mouth quirking. "You blinked."
Despite everything, I huff out an almost-laugh. "That's not how it works."
"No? Then explain it to me." He shifts slightly closer. "How do they work?"
"You can't be serious."
"Deadly serious. These angel things sound terrifying."
He's doing something. I know he's doing something. But my brain's too scrambled to figure out what. "They're... they're quantum-locked. They literally cease to exist when observed."
"So as long as you're looking at them, you're safe?"
"Yes, but..." I realize I'm breathing easier. The band around my chest is loosening. "You can't look forever. Eventually, you have to blink."
"What if someone else watches while you blink?"
"That's..." I frown at him. "That's actually what they do in the episode. Take turns."
"Smart." His hand brushes my elbow, so light I might've imagined it. "So you need backup. Someone to watch when you can't."
The touch grounds me. Pulls me back into my body. "This is ridiculous. We're supposed to be practicing."
"We are. You're teaching me about terrifying time-eating angels." His hands run gently down my arms. Another brush of fingers, this time against my wrist. "What happens after they send you back?"
"You live out your life in the past. The Doctor calls it killing you nicely."
"Fuck. That's dark." He's, hell… he's right in front of me. I can feel the heat rolling off him. When did he get so close? I can smell his deodorant mixing with workout sweat. See the faint freckles across his nose. "But you survive, right? Just in a different time?"
"I... yes." My cards are crumpled in my hands. When did I do that? "You adapt. Have to."
"Like neuroplasticity."
I blink at him. "What?"
"The brain adapting. Reorganizing. Like your presentation." He grins. "Which you obviously know backward and forward. You were doing that thing where you quote studies by memory."
"I wasn't—"
"’Chen et al, 2019. Martindale's longitudinal study.’ You rattled off like six sources without looking at your cards once."
He was actually listening. While I was freezing up like an idiot, he was paying attention. "Those are foundational studies in the field."
"See? You know this shit." His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and solid. "You just need to remember that when the seats are full."
The weight of his hand is... distracting. He's got strong hands. I can feel it through my hoodie. "It's not that simple."
"Sure it is. You explained quantum-locked murder angels to me without stuttering once."
"That's different."
"Why?"
"Because you asked. You wanted to know." The truth slips out before I can stop it, and my head ducks down to hide my face. "You weren't judging whether I deserve to be here."
His hand tightens slightly. "You think that's what they're doing? Deciding if you deserve it?"
"Don't they?" The words taste bitter. "First-generation college student. Working-class family. No connections, no legacy, just grades and desperation. You think admissions committees don't see right through—"
"Hey." Both hands on my shoulders now, and fuck, they're huge. They could probably span my entire back. "You're brilliant. You know that, right?"
"Knowing material isn't—"
"Not just the material. The way you think. How you connect things. Like..." He pauses, chewing his lip. "Okay, when you explained the angels? You didn't just recite facts. You made it real. Made me give a shit about British sci-fi."
"Doctor Who is a cultural institution—"
"See? There. That passion." His thumbs move in small circles, and I absolutely do not lean into it. "That's what they need to see. Not some robot reciting facts."
"I don't know how to do that in front of people."
"Sure you do. You just did it with me."
"That's different," I say again, but weaker.
"Practice with me, then. Pretend it's just us talking. Me asking questions because I actually want to know."
I look at him, really look. Post-practice flush on his cheeks. Earnest expression. Hands still warm on my shoulders like that's a normal thing to do. Like, straight, or figuring things out, guys just casually touch their gay tutors during panic attacks.
He's going to realize he's touching you and freak out.
But he doesn't. Just stands there, patient, while my brain sorts itself out. His hands running up and down my arms, he squeezes slightly on my shoulders with each pass.
"Fine." I straighten, trying to ignore how his hands slip away. "But if I freeze again—"
"Then we talk about angels. Or football. Or whatever." He walks back to his seat and drops down, grinning. "I'm not going anywhere."
And fuck if my chest does a thing. I ignore it.
I make it through the presentation. Not perfectly, I stumble twice and have to backtrack, but I finish. Gavin asks questions that actually make sense, forcing me to expand on points and clarify things. By the end, I'm almost enjoying it.
"See?" He's beaming like I just cured cancer. "Knew you had it in you."
"One practice session doesn't mean—"
"We'll do more. Many as you need." He starts packing up, muscles shifting under that stupid, tiny tank top. "Same time Thursday?"
"I... yes. Okay."
"Cool. I gotta shower before our frat meeting, but this was good." He pauses at the end of the row. "Hey, bring your actual presentation Thursday. I want to see the slides."
"Why?"
"Cause I'm betting they're color-coded and gorgeous. You seem like the type."
He's not wrong. They're absolutely color-coded. "That's presumptuous."
"That's a yes." He winks, actually winks, and heads for the exit. "Later, Doc!"
I hate that nickname. Except apparently I don't when he says it.
The auditorium feels even bigger once he's gone. I sit on the edge of the stage, trying to process what just happened. He touched me. Multiple times. Intentionally. And didn't act weird about it after.
He was just being nice. Helping the anxious gay man who can't handle public speaking.
But the way he looked at me...
You're projecting. He's straight. He's doing this ridiculous tutoring thing to understand his friend better or whatever… he said he's not sure what he is.
My phone buzzes with an unknown number.
Unknown
This is Gavin btw. I’m assuming you didn’t save it after coffee ;)
I stare at the text. Crap, how could he possibly know that? I quickly save his name.
Me