Here's a little introduction/summary of what to expect:
Evan never wanted a tutor. But then Maxwell showed up - older, hotter, built like control in a crisp button-up.
Now Evan’s “accidentally” walking in shirtless, lounging in low-hanging sweats, pretending to study while watching Maxwell’s hands, his jaw, his mouth.
The sessions start at the kitchen table… but don’t stay there.
Because Evan can’t focus when Maxwell leans in close, voice low, lips inches away.
He’s supposed to be learning Psych. But all he can think about is how far he can push before Maxwell snaps and what happens when he finally does.....👀
Let’s just say the tutoring session’s about to get a whole lot steamier and Evan’s about to learn a very hands-on lesson.
I didn’t want a damn tutor.
Let’s start there.
It wasn’t even my idea. My psych prof and my parents ganged up on me like some academic intervention. “You’re not gonna stay on the team if your GPA keeps dipping,” they said. “We’re not paying for college just so you can run around shirtless with a stick,” they said. Real supportive.
So yeah. That’s how Maxwell entered the picture.
Maxwell, the 25-year-old grad student who voluntarily tutors dumb jocks like me because apparently some people actually enjoy doing extra work. Couldn’t relate.
I wasn’t expecting him to be hot.
Like... unfairly hot.
Tall, broad shoulders, sharp jaw, glasses.....glasses, seriously? like he walked off the cover of some professor thirst trap calendar. Button-up tucked into fitted jeans, hair neatly styled, posture straight like he’s never once slouched in his life. A total contrast to me in my oversized hoodie and lacrosse shorts, pretending I hadn’t just rolled out of bed at 1pm.
He stepped into my apartment, calm, collected, already scanning the place like he was mentally reorganizing it. “You must be Evan,” he said. Voice deep. Measured. Confident.
“And you’re... punctual,” I replied, scratching my head even though it wasn’t itchy. Great start.
He smiled just slightly, like he knew exactly how unprepared I was.
I led him to the kitchen table, where I had strategically placed my psych textbook next to an untouched energy drink to suggest I had tried studying. Spoiler: I had not.
He sat down, opened his notebook, and just like that, class was in session.
Except I wasn’t paying attention to the chapter on cognitive development.
I was watching him.
The way he read. The way he pushed his glasses up. The way his forearm flexed just a little every time he underlined something in my notes. This was bad. This was...weird. I was supposed to be annoyed he was even here. I didn’t want this session. Didn’t want a stranger judging how shitty my study habits were.
But instead...
I was kinda into it?
God. Was I crushing on my tutor right now?
Maxwell didn’t even notice. Or if he did, he was playing it cool as hell. Just kept explaining theories and scribbling examples and using phrases like “you’re capable of more than you think,” like he wasn’t sitting five inches away from a twenty-year-old jock who had never been more confused by Freud or his own hormones.
“So... do you actually understand any of this?” he asked, glancing up.
Caught. I blinked. “Huh? Yeah. Kinda.”
He leaned back, arms crossed, assessing me like a professor would assess a late essay.
“I don’t think you do.”
“Wow. Way to boost my confidence,” I said, trying to laugh it off, but my face was hot. Probably red. Probably obvious. God, this was embarrassing.
He didn’t smile. Just said, “We’ll work on it.”
And for some reason, that felt... grounding? Comforting?
I hated that.
About thirty minutes in, he looked around. “Is there somewhere quieter we can work?”
And because the universe loves irony, I said, “Yeah. Uh. My room.”
He raised an eyebrow, then nodded once. No hesitation. No joke. Just stood up and grabbed his things like this was completely normal.
My brain was not normal.
I led him down the hall, fully aware that my room still smelled faintly like yesterday’s protein shake and the sheets were barely pulled up. But he didn’t react. Just took the desk chair like it was his throne, sat down, opened his notebook again.
And I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to look anywhere but at him.
He started talking again, more theories, more notes, more diagrams. I wasn’t hearing a damn word.
I was staring at his lips.
His hands. The way his legs spread slightly when he got comfortable.
And then it hit me, hard, sharp, right in the gut.
I wanted him.
I wanted my tutor.
I didn’t even want the session an hour ago and now I was sitting here wondering what he looked like under that crisp shirt and how far I could push this without getting kicked out of college.
“Evan,” he said, and my name sounded different in his voice. Like a warning. Like he knew.
I swallowed. “Yeah?”
“You’re staring.”
Shit.
I laughed, because what else could I do? “Just... trying to figure out what the hell any of this means.”
He didn’t blink. “Let me know when you’re actually ready to learn.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Maybe I am.”
He leaned forward, just a little. “Good. Because I don’t waste time.”
And just like that, he was back to writing, back to explaining. Cool. Composed. Totally unfazed.
Meanwhile, I was on my bed, wondering what the hell just happened.
Because I hadn’t just learned about Piaget.
I’d learned I had a serious problem.
And his name was Maxwell.
Next day.
Maxwell, my tutor showed up again.
Right on time, of course. Two o’clock sharp, knocking like a goddamn punctual menace while I was “getting ready.” Which is to say, standing in the middle of my room, very intentionally shirtless, very casually dripping from a fresh shower, wearing only a pair of loose gym shorts and pretending this was just a totally normal Tuesday.
I opened the door all slow. Wet hair, bare chest, towel still in my hand like I just got out.
“Oh,” I said, like I was surprised. “Didn’t realize it was already two.”
Maxwell gave me a once-over that lasted less than a second but felt like a spotlight. “I’m on time,” he said flatly. “You’re not ready.”
I shrugged. “Guess I lost track.”
He looked... unimpressed. Not flustered. Not bothered. Just calm and stone-faced, like he was here to deliver a lecture and not currently staring at a shirtless college jock who absolutely did this on purpose.
Still, I turned and walked away slowly, letting him see the back view, the dip of the shorts. Just saying.
Five minutes later, I walked back out, dry now, shirt still very much missing. Sweatpants hanging low. Casual.
He was already seated at the kitchen table, flipping through the psych textbook. Like he lived here.
“You ever not wear a shirt?” he asked without looking up.
“You ever not wear that smug expression?” I fired back.
That got a look. The tiniest smirk. Maybe. Hard to tell.
“Let’s focus,” he said, straightening his notes. “You’re weeks behind on cognitive theory.”
“Oh, I’m focused,” I said, leaning in a little. “Just not on the book.”
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t crack. Just turned a page and said, “Cognitive development. Where did we stop last time?”
The man had discipline. I’ll give him that.
I wasn’t listening. I was watching him again. The way he moved. How focused he was. Every word out of his mouth was sharp and clean and exact, and somehow that just made it worse. Because I could feel myself getting drawn in. Hard.
I didn’t even want a tutor.
Didn’t want this session. Didn’t want the damn class.
But I was sitting here, barely breathing, thinking: how is he so hot when he’s talking about Erikson’s psychosocial whatever-the-hell theory?
And more importantly: how far could I push him before he pushed back?
He started walking me through some theory, his voice low and steady, and I was trying...kind of...to follow, but the truth was, I was way more interested in watching him teach. The way he moved, the way his jaw clenched when he read, how his fingers tapped against the margin of the page when he was about to make a point. There was something sharp about him. Focused. Smart. Not like most of the guys I knew. Definitely not like me.
I didn’t want to admit it out loud, but the guy made learning feel… hot? Is that a thing? Whatever. It was doing something to me.
“You listening?” he asked, glancing over.
“To the words, or just your voice?”, I fired back.
His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was trying not to smile.
I leaned back in the chair, arms crossed loosely, letting the sweatpants ride a little low. “You don’t crack easy, do you?”
He shook his head. “We’re moving.”
I blinked. “Moving where?”
“Your room. You’re too distracted out here.”
“That’s your solution? My bed?”
“Maybe if you’re in your own space, you’ll stop acting like this is a game.”
Oh, it was a game. He just didn’t want to admit he was playing.
Still, I led him in. Maxwell didn’t hesitate, just sat on the edge of my bed and spread out his notes like he’d done this a hundred times before. Except now, we were in my room, alone, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the mattress where I’ve definitely done a lot of things that weren’t academic.
I sat down beside him, letting our legs touch. “Hope you’re not afraid of beds,” I said.
He didn’t respond. Didn’t shift away either.
We got back to it, or at least he did. Talking through theories, definitions, all that good stuff, but the air was heavier now. I could feel the heat coming off him. His voice had changed. Still steady, but slower. He was more aware. Or maybe I was.
Our hands brushed once as we reached for the same pen. I didn’t move. Neither did he.
I looked up.
He was already watching me.
And this time, he didn’t look away.
My breath caught, just a little. My heart kicked into something faster. I felt like I was leaning toward him without even moving. It was that quiet, charged kind of space where no one’s said anything but everything’s being said.
I thought he was going to kiss me.
I wanted him to.
But instead, Maxwell pulled back. Shut the notebook. Stood up.
“I should go,” he said, and he was already halfway to the door.
“What?” I stood too. “Why?”
“Because I can’t keep pretending this is just tutoring.”
My pulse jumped, but my mouth moved faster. “Who said it was?”
He didn’t answer. Just grabbed his bag, opened the door, and walked out without looking back.
And I stood there, still shirtless, still hard, still not sure what the hell just happened, but knowing exactly what it meant.
We were definitely crossing a line.
Just not today.
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