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Connor Walsh has to be the most handsome man to ever walk the face of the earth. His outfits must be tailor-made with how well they conform to his tight body. That facial hair is always trimmed to neat perfection. And that hair, perfectly parted and styled, like he didn’t spend all day standing in front of argumentative kids, trying to teach them how to diagram sentences.
His smirk, though - that’s what separates this god from men. Sharp as a dagger, paired with a bright, mischievous spark in his eye. Worse, he only ever seems to flash it to Oliver. It’s so distracting that Oliver, last week, walked right into a wall while staring. Connor had helped him up and asked if he was okay. Oliver was too embarrassed to admit he’d broken his glasses.
Now Oliver stands in his art room, cleaning up the paint brushes his last class left strewn about. They are supposed to stay and clean up after class, but it’s difficult to convince a bunch of hungry fifth graders to not run off to lunch. And, well, Oliver has trouble saying no to their doe-eyes.
Oliver decides to eat in the classroom today, still too embarrassed to face Connor in the teachers’ lounge. Just as he sits down to eat, there’s a knock on his door.
“Hey, didn’t see you in the lounge,” Connor says, a lunch-bag tucked under one arm, a can of soda in his hand.
“Connor?” Oliver pushes away from the desk and starts to stand. “Is everything okay?”
Connor waves at him to sit back down. “Just wanted to have lunch with you, that’s all.”
“Lunch… with me?”
“Is that okay?”
More than. “Yeah.”
Connor walks across the room, grabs a metal chair, and drags it up to the front of Oliver’s desk. Oliver hurries to move some photos and his cup of pens to make room.
Connor wastes no time digging into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “So why you hiding out in here?”
Self-consciously, Oliver reaches up and touches the corner of his glasses where he had to tape on the broken leg. He doesn’t have the money just yet to replace them.
“Is it cause you walked into a wall?” Connor asks.
“What? No. What?” he gasps, face turning red.
Connor’s smirk returns, as sharp as ever, piercing right into Oliver’s heart.
“Because I was kind of hoping it was,” Connor says. He shrugs. “I was kind of hoping that you had a crush on me.”
“You… I…”
“Because I’ve got a crush on you.”
Twenty minutes later, Connor turns to leave Oliver’s classroom with messy hair and Oliver’s number written in paint on his arm. When he looks back, Oliver winks.
And Connor walks into the door.