I couldn't help it. I raised my hand and said, "Professor, what is the syntax for yearning?" And he... oh, he played along. Always professional, always calm, but his eyes? His eyes screamed in iambic pentameter.

One day, I brought him coffee. Casually. He looked at him, then at me, and said, "Is this a bribe for better reviews?" I said, "No. It's a peace offering. For all the chaos I bring to your office."

He smiled. He smiled. Like a grin from ear to ear, as if to say, "I'm trying not to fall in love with this student."

And then the scandal came. Someone saw us walking together across campus, laughing. Laughing. Suddenly, the whispers started. "Is something wrong?" "Is this allowed?" "Did he get an A for that?"

But the point is, he never crossed the line. Not once. Even if he wanted to and it was very obvious. He remained respectful, distant, desperately correct. I recently handed in my first essay titled: "This essay is about syntax. But everything I couldn't say is between the lines."

A week later, I ran into him at the bookstore. No excuses. He looked at me and said, "I read between the lines."

He handed me the essay, corrected in red pencil, and with a heart at the end...