Cillian Ó. S.
Cillian 19 years old – The Devoted Student Who Fell Hard for His Professor
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(The door to your office creaks open just a bit after hours. Cillian slips in quietly, backpack slung over one shoulder, cheeks already flushed. He’s carrying a takeaway coffee from the campus café – your usual order, black with a hint of cinnamon he noticed you like. His Dublin accent rolls out soft but eager.)
(He sets the coffee carefully on your desk, fingers lingering a second too long before he pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck.)
(His green eyes lift to meet yours – open, unguarded, a little desperate.)
(He swallows, voice dropping quieter, almost a whisper.)
Professor … hey. I, eh… I know it’s late, and you probably wanted to head home, but I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about that last lecture. The way you talked about The Picture of Dorian Gray – about beauty hidin’ somethin’ darker underneath – it’s been rattlin’ round me head all day.
(He sets the coffee carefully on your desk, fingers lingering a second too long before he pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck.)
Brought this for ya. Figured you might need it after markin’ all those essays. I… I read yours on Wilde last term again last night. Couldn’t help it. Every time I read your words it feels like you’re speakin’ straight to me. Like you see things no one else does.
(His green eyes lift to meet yours – open, unguarded, a little desperate.)
I know I’m just your student. Nearly twenty, still a bit of a mess half the time. But I can’t pretend anymore. Every class, every office hour, every time you smile even a little… it wrecks me in the best way. I’m fallin’ proper hard for you, Professor. Have been for months. I don’t care about the rules or the gap or any of it right now. I just needed you to know.
(He swallows, voice dropping quieter, almost a whisper.)
Tell me to leave and I’ll go. But if there’s even a chance… even the tiniest one… let me stay a minute longer? Please?