Chapter Text
The early morning sun was doing very little to warm the crisp autumn air outside the Humanities building, but inside Lecture Hall 104, Jobe Bellingham was practically radiating heat from pure, unadulterated stress.
He slung his worn canvas backpack over the back of his chair, settled into the second row, and pulled out his iPad, a crisp leather notebook, and three different colored gel pens. Jobe was twenty-one, a third-year Media & Cultural Studies major, and usually the embodiment of relaxed confidence. He was tall, athletic, had a smile that effortlessly charmed half his seminar classes, and generally coasted through life with an easygoing grace.
Except when it came to this specific class.
Advanced Contemporary Media Theory. It was a required upper-level seminar, notoriously dense, and the syllabus had been updated at the last second with a brand-new, unnamed visiting professor.
"I'm telling you, it's going to be some eighty-year-old tenured guy who talks in a monotone for two hours," his roommate and classmate, Marcus, groaned as he collapsed into the seat next to him. "I haven't even had coffee yet, Jobe. If he starts reciting Marshall McLuhan, I'm going to hibernate."
"It won't be that bad," Jobe said, adjusting his collar. He checked his phone under the desk.
Jobe (8:54 AM): i'm in class. missing u already. wish u didn't have to go into work early today :(
My Heart / Mike (8:55 AM): focus on your class, starboy. talk later.
Jobe stared at his screen, a soft, dopey smile instantly spreading across his face. Starboy. Michael had been calling him that since they met three years ago.
They had met when Jobe was an eighteen-year-old freshman interning at a local art collective where Michael, then twenty-three, was doing freelance digital media work and curation. What started as Jobe offering to help carry heavy display boards turned into late-night coffee runs, long talks about art, music, and philosophy, and eventually, three years of quiet, steady, utterly intoxicating love.
Michael Olise was twenty-six now—cool, incredibly smart, impossibly handsome, and devastatingly effortless in everything he did. Jobe was utterly, unabashedly obsessed with him. He loved the way Michael’s voice stayed low and calm even when he was excited, the quiet hum he made when he was deep in thought, the way his sharp eyes softened only when looking at Jobe, and the low, subtle smirk he gave whenever he knew he had Jobe wrapped around his pinky finger. They lived together in a quiet little apartment ten minutes off-campus, a space filled with Michael’s art books and Jobe’s chaotic energy.
"Bro, you are staring at your phone like it's a golden retriever puppy," Marcus said, rolling his eyes. "Put it away, the door's opening."
Jobe sighed, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket. "Just texting my boyfriend."
"We know, Jobe. We all know. You've been together three years, he's amazing, he cooks, he's pretty, you love him. We hear it every day."
"Because he is amazing," Jobe mumbled, leaning his chin on his palm.
The heavy wooden door at the front of the hall clicked open. Heavy footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor as someone walked toward the podium carrying a dark leather messenger bag, a sleek black coffee mug, and a stack of printed syllabi.
Jobe wasn't paying full attention—he was currently mentally planning what he and Michael should make for dinner—until the low, distinct, vaguely French-accented voice echoed through the speaker system.
"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Advanced Contemporary Media Theory."
Jobe froze.
His head snapped up so fast his neck popped.
Standing at the front of the room, casually unscrewing the lid of his coffee cup, was a tall, lean man with a short beard, perfectly trimmed hair, wearing a dark navy turtleneck under a relaxed charcoal blazer, paired with relaxed-fit trousers and clean white sneakers. He looked impeccably put together, effortlessly stylish, and completely unimpressed by the room full of eighty expectant students.
It was Michael.
Michael.
His Michael. The man who had worn a pair of grey sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt while burnt-toast-making in their kitchen just three hours ago.
"My name is Professor Olise," Michael continued smoothly, his dark eyes sweeping over the rows of lecture seats with cool professionalism. "I’ll be taking over this section for the semester."
Jobe’s jaw dropped. He sat upright, his back as straight as a ruler, eyes wide as saucers.
Michael’s gaze glided over the front rows, landing squarely on Jobe. For a fraction of a second—a micro-expression so quick that if Jobe hadn't been staring directly at his lips he would have missed it—a faint, sly curve hit the corner of Michael’s mouth. His left eyebrow gave a tiny, almost invisible twitch.
Then, without missing a single beat, Michael turned to the whiteboard and uncapped a black marker.
"Before we review the syllabus, I want to clarify my expectations regarding seminar participation and research methodology..."
Beside him, Marcus was scribbling down notes. "Damn, he's young. Looks like he’s twenty-five or something. Pretty chill vibe though."
Jobe couldn't speak. His brain was short-circuiting. Professor Olise? PROFESSOR? Since when was Michael teaching here? He knew Michael had taken on an adjunct guest-lecturing gig for the fall term, but Michael had deliberately glossed over the exact course code, calling it "just some intro media stuff for university kids."
Jobe clutched his gel pen so hard his knuckles turned white.
Down at the front, Michael was pacing slowly along the dais, holding a piece of chalk, explaining the history of mass communication with the calm, magnetic authority that Jobe usually only saw when Michael was explaining high-concept graphic design. Every gesture Michael made—the way he gestured with his long fingers, the way he tilted his head when pausing for effect, the low pitch of his voice carrying through the room—was making Jobe’s heart hammer against his ribs for entirely inappropriate reasons.
He’s wearing the navy turtleneck I bought him for his birthday, Jobe thought wildly. He’s wearing it to teach MY class.
Ten minutes into the lecture, Michael turned to face the class again. "Now, can anyone give me a contemporary example of how subcultural aesthetics are commodified by mass media algorithms?"
A girl in the front row raised her hand, answering with a long, convoluted explanation about TikTok trends.
"Exactly," Michael said, nodding approvingly. "Good observation."
Jobe’s chest tightened slightly. Don't look at her like that, he thought, absurdly defensive. Look at me.
As if reading his mind, Michael's dark eyes shifted directly to Jobe. "What about you, in the second row? Mr... Bellingham, is it?"
The whole room turned slightly. Jobe choked on his own air, coughing into his elbow before clearing his throat, his cheeks burning a brilliant shade of crimson.
"Uh," Jobe stuttered, his voice dropping an octave as he tried to sound cool and completely unfazed. "Yeah. I mean... you could look at how streetwear fashion transitions from niche skate communities to high-end luxury runways through digital curation."
Michael held his gaze for three agonizing seconds. The quiet, heavy intensity in Michael's eyes was the exact same look he gave Jobe right before he leaned in to kiss him on the couch at night.
"Precisely, Mr. Bellingham," Michael said smoothly, turning back to the board. "A very... thorough understanding of curation."
Jobe sank about two inches lower into his chair, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.
---
The moment the two-hour lecture concluded and Michael dismissed the class, students began packing up. Jobe waited until Marcus left to grab a spot in the library, lingering near the edge of the row until the rest of the hall emptied out.
Once the heavy doors swung shut, leaving only the two of them in the vast, echoing room, Jobe practically sprinted down the stairs to the podium.
"Are you serious right now?!" Jobe hissed, though his mouth was wide with a giant, infectious grin. "Professor Olise? Professor?!"
Michael was calmly packing his laptop into his leather bag. He didn't look up immediately, but the corner of his lips tugged upward. "That is my name, yes."
"You said you were doing a guest lecture course at a community college on the south side!"
"I said I was guest lecturing a course," Michael corrected, zipping his bag and finally leaning against the wooden edge of the teacher's desk, folding his arms over his chest. He looked up at Jobe through his dark lashes, his tone utterly smooth. "I never said where. You didn't ask for the course code, starboy."
"You set me up!" Jobe accused, stepping right into Michael’s personal space. He reached out, grabbing the lapels of Michael's charcoal blazer, pulling him slightly closer. "I was sitting there for two hours trying not to stare at your mouth while you talked about media theory! Do you have any idea how distracting you are?"
"I'm very educational," Michael said softly, not resisting as Jobe pulled him in. His hand casually rested on Jobe's hip, fingers hooking lightly into the belt loop of Jobe's jeans. "Did you learn anything today, Jobe?"
"I learned that my boyfriend is a massive tease," Jobe murmured, leaning down.
"Careful," Michael murmured, though he didn't pull away. "We're on campus."
"The door is closed," Jobe whispered, and closed the tiny gap between them, pressing his lips firmly against Michael's.
The kiss was slow, sweet, and familiar, carrying the warm, familiar scent of Michael’s cologne mixed with roasted coffee. Michael hummed softly against Jobe’s mouth, his thumb gently stroking Jobe's hip through his shirt. Jobe instantly softened, melting into the touch, his hand sliding up to cup the back of Michael’s neck, fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at his nape.
When they pulled apart, Michael was looking up at him with that warm, quiet affection he reserved exclusively for Jobe.
"You have to be professional in my class, Mr. Bellingham," Michael murmured, his fingers gently tapping Jobe's cheek. "No favoritism."
"I expect an A," Jobe grinned, leaning down to bump his nose against Michael's cheek. "Otherwise I'm sleeping on my side of the bed and taking all the good pillows."
Michael chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "You already take all the pillows." He gently pushed Jobe back by his shoulders, adjusting his own blazer. "Go to your next class. I'll see you at home tonight. Make sure you read chapter two."
"Yes, Professor," Jobe winked, grabbing his backpack and walking toward the exit, feeling like he was flying.
---
Over the next week, the dynamic was absolute torture—and completely thrilling.
In class, Michael was the picture of academic cool. He was brilliant, sharp, articulate, and completely unbothered by anything. The students loved him. He didn't raise his voice, he never got flustered, and his casual, dry wit kept everyone engaged.
Jobe, on the other hand, was struggling for survival.
Sitting in the second row, Jobe spent half the time taking genuine notes and the other half admiring the line of Michael’s jaw, the subtle flex of his forearm when he wrote on the board, or the way he adjusted his watch. Jobe was utterly, shamelessly smitten, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to whisper domestic secrets to his classmates.
"Yeah, he looks intense right now, but last night he spent twenty minutes trying to catch a moth in a glass because he didn't want to hurt it."
"He looks cool in that turtleneck, but he wears fluffy mismatched socks to bed."
It was a miracle Jobe kept his mouth shut.
The real challenge, however, came during week two.
Michael was lecturing on audience reception theory, resting one hip casually against the front desk, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket. The discussion was lively, with students pitching different ideas about how fans interact with pop culture figures.
A girl sitting two seats away from Jobe—a bright, friendly girl named Maya who often chatted with Jobe before class—raised her hand.
"Professor Olise, but wouldn't you say that personal bias always skews how an audience interprets media? Like, if you already have a deep emotional connection or a personal relationship with someone involved in the creation, you can't really view it objectively."
Michael nodded slowly, taking a sip from his coffee mug. "That's a fair point, Maya. Objectivity in media consumption is largely a myth anyway. We all bring our personal biases to the table."
Maya smiled, leaning forward slightly. "Right! Like, if I were evaluating a project made by... I don't know, my partner, I’d probably think it was brilliant even if it was objectively terrible."
The class laughed softly. Michael smiled—a rare, genuine smile that lit up his eyes—and glanced nonchalantly toward the second row.
"Well," Michael said, his tone entirely casual, as if commenting on the weather. "Jobe is my boyfriend, so that explains why he gives my syllabus five stars."
The entire lecture hall went dead, silent.
For two full seconds, nobody moved. The silence was so heavy you could hear the air conditioning humming.
Jobe froze mid-note, his pen hovering a millimeter above his paper. His neck turned bright red, the heat spreading rapidly up to his ears.
Marcus slowly turned his head to look at Jobe, his eyes practically popping out of his skull. "What?" Marcus whispered loudly.
Maya’s mouth opened into an 'O' of pure shock. "Wait—what?"
Michael didn't even blink. He took another slow sip of his coffee, turned back to the whiteboard, and uncapped his marker.
"Moving on to page forty-two," Michael continued, as if he hadn't just dropped a metaphorical nuclear bomb in the middle of a Tuesday morning lecture. "Adorno's critique of the culture industry..."
The room erupted into quiet, frantic whispers.
"Did he just say...?"
"Wait, Jobe?!"
"They're together?!"
"Three years?!"
"IS HE SERIOUS?"
Jobe slapped both hands over his face, hiding his burning cheeks, though he couldn't stop the massive, helpless laugh that escaped his throat. Down at the front, Michael kept writing on the board, but Jobe could see the slight, triumphant twitch in his shoulders.
The sly bastard had done it on purpose.
---
Once the cat was out of the bag, the atmosphere in Lecture Hall 104 shifted from academic formality to a strange, highly entertaining soap opera.
Because Michael made no attempt to hide it—nor did he make a huge deal out of it—it became an open, hilarious secret. Michael remained professional during grading and lectures, but the subtle banter between them was lethal.
"Mr. Bellingham," Michael said during a seminar on digital iconography a few days later, looking across the room. "Care to explain why your assignment was submitted at 2:14 AM?"
Jobe smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Because my roommate was making too much noise cooking late-night snacks in the kitchen, Professor."
Michael didn't miss a beat. "Your roommate should learn to manage his time better. And stop eating my sea-salt chips."
The class burst out laughing. Jobe hid his face in his hands, grinning wildly.
However, while Jobe adored the banter, there was one tiny, unexpected side effect of everyone knowing they were together: Jobe was a very, very attentive boyfriend, and he didn't realize how much he naturally radiated warmth toward everyone around him.
Jobe was an extrovert by nature. He smiled easily, he leaned in when people talked to him, he helped classmates with their study guides, and he was naturally charming. He didn't mean anything by it—it was just how he was built.
Michael, however, was a classic introvert. Quiet, observant, and deeply possessive of the things—and people—he loved.
It came to a head on a Thursday afternoon after class had ended.
A group of students, including a guy named Liam from the soccer team, had gathered around Jobe's desk to go over notes for the upcoming midterm essay. Liam was tall, charismatic, and leaning over Jobe’s chair, pointing at Jobe's iPad screen.
"Yeah, see, that point you made about viral media is killer," Liam said, laughing and clapping Jobe on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there for a second too long. "You're a lifesaver, Jobe. Seriously."
Jobe gave him a bright, flashing smile, resting his chin in his hand as he looked up. "Ah, it's nothing! Just gotta organize the thesis better. I can text you my outline if you want?"
"That'd be awesome, man. You're the best." Liam grinned, leaning a little closer.
At the front of the room, Michael was packing his bag. His movements had slowed down significantly. His dark eyes were locked onto Liam’s hand, which was still resting on the back of Jobe’s chair, and then shifted to Jobe’s bright, dimpled smile.
Michael’s jaw tightened. A dark, quiet cool settled over his features.
"Class is over," Michael announced, his voice slicing through the lingering ambient noise of the room. It wasn't loud, but it had a sharp, undeniable edge that made everyone in the room instinctively look up. "If you have questions about the reading, office hours are posted on the portal. Clear the hall for the next section, please."
Liam blinked, sensing the sudden drop in temperature. "Right. Thanks, Professor Olise. See ya, Jobe."
"Later, Liam!" Jobe called out cheerfully.
As the last student exited and the heavy double doors clicked shut, Jobe stretched his arms over his head, standing up. "Man, Liam was really struggling with section three. Glad I could help him out—"
He stopped.
Michael was standing right in front of him. He had moved across the room in total silence. His arms were folded, his jaw set, his dark eyes staring down at Jobe with an intensity that could melt steel.
Jobe blinked, caught off guard by the sudden atmosphere. "Uh... Mike? You good?"
"You smile at everyone like that?" Michael asked quietly. His tone was smooth, but there was a distinct, simmering tension underneath it.
Jobe paused, tilting his head. "Like what?"
"Like they just hung the moon," Michael said, stepping half an inch closer. His gaze was sharp. "You were practically beaming at him."
Jobe’s eyebrows shot up. For a second, he was confused, but then realization dawned on him, and a slow, disbelieving smirk started to spread across his face. "Wait... are you jealous?"
"I'm not jealous," Michael said immediately, his voice flat.
"You are!" Jobe gasped, a sudden burst of affection and amusement hitting his chest. "You're jealous of Liam!"
"I'm not jealous of a twenty-year-old who doesn't know the difference between structuralism and post-structuralism," Michael retorted coolly, though his dark eyes flashed. "I just don't appreciate him touching your shoulder for five minutes while you sit there giving him your signature smile."
"My signature smile?" Jobe echoed, stepping closer and hooking his fingers into the belt loops of Michael's trousers, tugging him in until their chests brushed. "Mike, I was just helping him with media theory! I'm an outgoing guy, you know this."
"I know," Michael murmured, his hand coming up to rest firmly on Jobe's waist, his grip possessive and tight. "I know how you are. That doesn't mean I have to like watching other people try to get your attention."
"Nobody is trying to get my attention," Jobe said softly, his voice dropping into that sweet, sincere register he only ever used when they were alone in their apartment. He reached up, cupping Michael's jaw, his thumb gently tracing the smooth line of his cheekbone. "Hey. Look at me."
Michael lowered his eyes to meet Jobe's.
"I don't care about Liam. I don't care about anyone in this lecture hall," Jobe whispered, his eyes warm and completely open. "I come to this class every Tuesday and Thursday for one reason, and it's not media theory. It's because I get to watch you be brilliant for two hours, and then I get to go home with you. You're the only one I want, Mike. You know that. I'm completely obsessed with you."
Michael searched Jobe's face for a second. The hard, protective edge in his posture slowly dissolved, replaced by that soft, quiet vulnerability he only ever allowed Jobe to see.
Michael let out a low breath, leaning his forehead against Jobe's. "You're ridiculous, starboy."
"You love it," Jobe murmured, tilting his head up to press his lips against Michael's.
This kiss wasn't like the quick, cautious one from the first week. It was deep, slow, and full of quiet reassurance. Michael’s hand slid up to the back of Jobe’s neck, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him close, while Jobe wrapped his arms tightly around Michael’s shoulders, pressing their bodies together until there was no space left between them.
When they pulled apart, both of them were slightly out of breath.
Michael pulled Jobe’s lower lip gently between his teeth before releasing it with a soft click. "We're going home," Michael said softly, his voice thick. "Now."
"What about your office hours?" Jobe teased, though he was already grabbing his backpack with one hand and entangling his fingers with Michael's with the other.
"Office hours are canceled," Michael said, slipping his arm around Jobe's waist as they walked toward the back exit. "Professor's orders."
Jobe laughed, leaning over to kiss Michael's cheek as they stepped out into the crisp autumn afternoon, totally, completely, and helplessly in love.