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Study room number 3 has a rectangular window and a sturdy wooden door —the old kind that is heavy, and cracks, and gets stuck midway if you don't open it with enough force. The floors are the same kind of dark old wood, with dents and scratches from years of chairs and shoes dragging down. On the brick walls there are posters and charts already discolored by the pass of time.
Inside, there is only one rectangular table in the middle with exactly two chairs —there were more at the beginning of the year, but students tend to take them out to the newer salons.
It's Mel King's favourite room.
She finds some kind of comfort in the old things. The smell of the books sitting on the high shelves against the left wall with sepia pages, or the particles of chalk constantly floating in the air from being used on the old-fashioned green board, glimmering under the soft afternoon light like teeny tiny fireflies.
It's also, because of its antique-like status, the most private room inside Pitt University. No one requests it, and the other four rooms are on the opposite side of the library; this one is left to an abandoned corner that receives some mellow sunlight, painting every surface with ambers and golds.
Usually, Mel would take her students there for tutoring sessions. She had started with it in her third semester only, and for just three students a week, which seemed like a fair number to begin with.
Sessions ranged from one to two hours depending on the difficulty level of the subject, the student’s comprehension of it, and how the teacher liked to test them. She had a whole system with color cards, abstracts, charts, and quizzes. Once a month, she made a super-test and offered prizes that varied from stickers to candies depending on the results. It's something she enjoyed, and at the same time, it helped her make a little money while keeping the knowledge fresh.
Her students were the best, too.
She tutored Mandy, a girl from first year, who was always chewing spearmint gum but did it a little loudly when questions turned out to be difficult, and high-fived her every time she understood something for the first time; they crossed paths every morning because they shared the same dorm floor. Every other weekend Mandy arrived at her room with disheveled hair and high heels swinging on her hands at the same time Mel went out for a morning walk.
Tommy, who should have been in her same year, but had fallen behind because he had to get another job midway through his degree, and took things so seriously that it made her a little teary. He worked at the coffee shop with the best boba tea on campus, and he always smiled bright and cheeky, even at rude customers.
And then there was Frank Langdon. There was no easy way to describe him. There was no clear reason why he'd been tutored either.
Langdon was a year ahead of her (but dropped Bio-Chem in the middle of his first year), somehow smarter than her, and still the only one who used the full two hours every single Thursday afternoon.
Langdon also seemed to belong exclusively to study room number 3. She had never crossed paths with him outside those four walls.
He got there ten minutes late every time since the first session, with a shiny smile and a cup in each hand: tooth rooting sweet boba tea for her and black-hole bitter coffee for himself, he would say, as he presented the drinks with a flourish that made her giggle —only the first time he bought her coffee with almond milk and she must have made a face because he asked what she really liked immediately.
Mostly, he paid attention to what she said. His blue eyes were intense and made her feel itchy in a weird way. They rarely abandoned her; it took her a while to get used to it, but after a few weeks, it felt weirder when he would look away for more than a minute or so, as if she became addicted to the attention now that she got it.
There were a few times when she asked him a question, and he froze, startled out of whatever his mind was wandering about. Mel found those strange, considering his eyes were still on her as if he were memorizing her words by watching her lips, but she gave him a pass just because Langdon would get pink cheeks and do that cute thing with a shake of his head and smile.
A month into it, she concluded that Frank didn't need the classes.
He knew the subjects, answered every question correctly, and sometimes he gave her tips on how to approach some monographs or which books to study from to make things easier. She told him so —it felt wrong to take money from him— but he dismissed her immediately, saying that it was important for him to be there and changing the subject immediately. They took forty-five minutes with his (or hers) material, and then he closed every book, pulled his chair closer to her, and lounged back in that I-look-perfectly-good-with-my-arms-crossed-over-my-chest way and started asking random questions about anything.
They talked about why they chose medicine (helping people for sure), where they lived during their childhood (always the same place for Frank and three different states in the last four years for Mel), and how their families were (his parents are high school sweethearts and he has an older sister in UCLA and she lives with her mom and twin sister who is her best friend).
Words floated easily between them. What Mel thought was a rambling problem seemed to be no issue with Langdon, who actually enjoyed it when she overshared or got too excited about something, nodding along and raising his thick eyebrows, urging her on.
One time, they spent the rest of the hour and fifteen minutes talking about how difficult it was to find the correct representation on the outfits of almost every new TV show or movie production that was supposed to be ‘Victorian’. It became a recurring topic given that apparently, both of them shared a deep love for history and movies.
Langdon was funny when he wasn't cynical and made her laugh with bad imitations of their least-liked professors. With every laugh he pulled from her, he seemed to grow an inch taller and make his chest a bit puffier, as if it had been a personal challenge to make her giggle until she snorted —which only happened once and immediately made him laugh in return. Sometimes she left the room with achy cheeks and a wrinkle on the upper right corner of her mouth as proof of her happiness. In contrast, he wasn't one to laugh much, just chuckled and looked at her with a big smile, crinkles around his eyes, and told her “funny” in a soft voice that made her want to look away.
It is possible, and it requires further experimentation, that she has a small, barely insignificant crush on him.
Okay. It's not insignificant or little. And by the second month of tutoring, she is sure she's developed at least a crush and at most a serious obsession.
They didn't see each other outside of the room, which made her believe she imagined him for three full days, but then he pulled the end of her braid playfully when she made fun of how he groans like an old man when he sits, and the electric shock it sent down her spine was enough to convince her otherwise.
Lately, it had been more and more difficult to focus on the material instead of the way his hand gripped her blue pen or how she could catch a glimpse of his tongue through his parted lips when he focused. It's insulting how interesting she found him. She used to have proper academic thoughts before him; now she wonders how tender his biceps would feel between her teeth, which seems feral.
It was almost the end of their Thursday meeting and she was letting her eyes chart the movements of the exposed tendons on his forearms as he doodled on the margins of her book a mini-Mel with bunny ears, which was as annoying as it was endearing.
“So, what do you think?” he asked suddenly —or maybe not suddenly, but she had been distracted enough that she lost track of the conversation.
It seemed impolite to ask him to repeat himself. Mel was looking at him after all. And he wore an expression she'd never seen before, his blue eyes even shinier, his smile bigger. Whatever he was asking, he was waiting for a yes —he even nodded absentmindedly— so she nodded vehemently.
“Yes, sure!”
It seemed to be the right thing to say because he ran a hand through his hair and chuckled, pleased.
“Cool.”
They stood there for a few seconds, his gaze roaming around her face as she smiled and mentally tried to track down how the conversation was going when she got lost —did she agree about Napoleon being a fearless leader? She hoped not; they'd been debating about it for such a long time.
“Well, then,” he said, standing up and taking her out of her reverie. “This…” He hunched over her book again and wrote something she couldn't see. “Is my number, just in case.”
“Oh.”
They'd never exchanged numbers before, which seems silly. She shared her contact information with her other two students, but only because sometimes they had follow-up questions that couldn't be solved during the sessions.
With that, he walked to the door, ready to leave, for the first time ending their meeting ten minutes before scheduled. At the door frame, he turned, his smile still intact.
“See you, Mel.”
*
Next Thursday was insanely hot. April decided to depart with a taste test of hell as a little charm to be remembered by. The streets were cruel, and her beloved study room number 3 seemed like the only safe space on earth at the moment.
Mel had to forgo her usual sweatpants and practical shirt for a skirt and tank top —it wasn't flashy, but it was so far out of her comfort zone that she had been tugging on the edge of her skirt all day. At least she knew Langdon would be bringing boba to freshen up a bit, and this time she brought one of those energy drinks he was always praising.
Ten minutes passed, and every sound outside had her sitting straighter, waiting to greet him —she needed to get a grip.
Fifteen minutes went by, and she got a bit worried.
At the twenty-minute mark, she started drafting text messages.
Mel saved his number and held back the impulse to put a pink heart next to his name right when she got home last week. Then she spent the whole week looking for excuses to text him, only to chicken out at the last minute. She had dreams about how he would text, if he would use emojis, or if he would use proper punctuation.
Hey, everything ok? :)
It's Mel btw! :)
I'm here!
Even though texting, the silence felt deafening. Mel felt worry creeping in as the three dooming dots appeared and disappeared on her phone screen, and finally disappeared completely. She took one more chance, swallowing down the feeling of being annoying.
We have study sessions :)
This time, the reply came immediately. Short and to the point.
OMW
Frank arrived ten minutes later, without boba or coffee in his hands and completely disarrayed —wearing a polo shirt that had him a little sweaty. Mel found it worrying just how hot he looked like that, too.
“I can't do this anymore,” was the first thing he said, closing the door and dramatically leaning against it. His face was hard, his jaw was clenched, and he couldn't meet her eyes for more than just a few seconds.
She stood so quickly her chair scraped against the wooden floor.
Mel knew this day would come. He really, really didn't need the classes, and she'd seen on a few occasions how his phone screen illuminated with texts from friends inviting him over to this or that. Langdon could be anywhere else. It didn't stop her chin from wobbling, though. He was a good friend after all, and she was so unused to having those.
“Oh,” she said, voice smaller than she intended. She clasped her hands together and rubbed her thumbs over her knuckles, an old habit that had never actually made her feel better.
“Don't,” he said, exhaling roughly and coming nearer to hold her hands himself. “Listen,” he started, rubbing small circles with his thumbs on the fleshy part of her hand between her thumb and forefinger. It was definitely more calming than doing it herself. “I'm sorry I made things awkward, but it would've been nice if you just told me you didn't want to go on a date with me.”
Her head flinched, and her eyes grew bigger watching him struggle with words, his eyebrows furrowed. With gentleness, he freed his left hand to scratch his eyebrow like he did every time he was struggling with an idea. He grabbed both of hers with his right hand —wow, he has big hands. No. Focus.
“Date?”
"From the moment I saw you leaving this room months ago, I knew I had to talk to you. You were standing by the door, waving goodbye to some girl, and before I knew what was happening, I was walking towards you.” His blue eyes shone with longing.
"For classes."
He stopped.
"For your name, Mel."
Oh.
"You just ambushed me by asking if I was there for tutoring, and I panicked, so I said yes." He ran a hand through his hair. "And then I thought that maybe if we spent time together every week, you'd get to know me." His laugh was short and miserable. "Which sounded normal until I said it out loud."
She stared.
"You signed up for tutoring because you wanted to talk to me?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds even worse." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Jesus. I'm sorry, Mel. I wish I could-"
“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, stepping back and probably louder than she was supposed to, but he threw so much information at her in such a short amount of time that she couldn't hold it in. “You like me? All this time? And you invited me to a date? When? How? I've never-”
“Mel, you stood me up. I asked you out, and you said yes. Very enthusiastically, might I add. And then I waited for you for an hour outside the movie theater. You didn't even text me.”
It was like the movies; Mel heard the scratching-halt sound in her head, memories flashing in front of her eyes. She thought about the boba he always got for her from a place twenty minutes in the opposite direction of the library. And the way he had spent three months pretending to need tutoring just to sit in a dusty room and listen to her ramble, just to ask her on a date, and wait for an hour outside a movie theater because she had gotten distracted looking at his forearms. Jesus, Mel.
“Oh, my god.”
“I- I know it could be awkward, but maybe someday we could be friends, at least?”
"I don't wanna be your friend." The words left her mouth before she could think them through.
Frank blinked.
"Oh," he said again, softer this time. "Well, then-"
She didn't let him finish. Whatever he was about to say got lost in a groan as their lips clashed together in a kiss. Because Mel had spent weeks wondering how soft his hair would feel between her fingers, whether his shoulders were as broad under his shirts as they looked, and if he laughed harder when he was tired. She had spent entire lectures thinking about his hands on her waist and the shape of his lips against hers.
The taste of his mouth was better than anything she'd ever tasted and a primal part of her started chanting pleasepleaseplease try a bit more of him.
She bit on his neck, perhaps a bit more forcefully than she should've considering the groan that echoed in the empty room and how he pushed her with firm hands on the hips, just an inch or so.
“Jesus, Mel. We…,” he said through gritted teeth. “We shouldn't do this here.”
He looked wild. His hair was a mess from her hands, and his chest was heaving with exertion. And she wanted him so bad.
“I want to,” she said, gripping his wrists and pulling him close again, chest to chest, so she had to get on her tiptoes to get another kiss on the dimple on his chin.
It seemed to be enough for him because he leaned down with another groan to deepen the kiss. At the same time, his hands caught her from the back of her thighs and pulled her on top of the table. A little yelp of surprise went past her lips, and he hummed into her mouth.
It was a blur of lips, teeth, and tongues after that. Mel'd never been kissed so thoroughly and suspected that if someone else had tried to drag his tongue along the inner seam of her top lip the way Langdon was doing, she wouldn't like it so much. She most definitely wouldn't pull them in with fistfuls of his soft hair for more.
Only when her hands drifted under the hem of his shirt and wandered around the edge of his jeans for a bit of skin-to-skin contact did he break the kiss again, his warm breath dancing over her lips.
“Mel…” he said, kissing the corner of her mouth. “We should really stop.”
Her skirt was bunched up at the top of her thighs, and every brush of his thumb along the inside of her leg made her wonder if he could tell —if he could feel— just how much she wanted him.
“Doesn’t look like you wanna stop.”
Her voice was unrecognizable to her own ears, low and breathy.
“Yeah…”
Frank took a moment. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled through his mouth in counts of four, mumbling something under his breath that she was in no condition to decipher. She couldn't make out the words, couldn't focus on much of anything except the way his forehead kept brushing against hers, back and forth, up and down, as if he was trying to soothe both of them.
Her half-lidded eyes focused on the small patch of hair teasing her from the neck of his polo shirt, making her think about how low it went or if it was as thick as the one she felt below his navel. Mel found the garment kind of offensive.
“Can you take off your shirt?” Mel asked.
“Wanna go on a date with me?” Langdon asked at the same time.
“What?”
“God, Mel,” he huffed and hid his face in the crook of her neck. His breathing tickled her skin pleasurably, and she tangled her arms and legs around him in a weird hug.
“Need a minute?”
“Uh-huh.”
He stayed there as she ran her fingers through his hair. Even with the leverage from her being on top of the table, he was still taller than her, and he had to crouch down; it didn't seem practical or comfortable. Mel let her hands travel down his spine and up again.
Somewhere along the soothing gesture, she started rubbing the tip of her nose behind his ear, a warm little spot where he smelled woodsy, and her stomach clenched. She smelled it in whiffs before during their study sessions, and her first instinct was to take a taste with just the tip of her tongue but she refrained in favor of his seemingly crumbling mental health. He had liked her for months after all —it filled her stomach with butterflies.
“I'll go on a date with you,” she said against his ear, as a little secret, nipping at his earlobe. No doubt this time that she knew what she was agreeing to.
“Yes?” He replied in a hushed tone.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She could feel his smile over the skin of her collarbone, and it made her pull him even closer.
“Can you take off your shirt now?”