High school senior dating college junior
(The fact that half the time you see him he's half-naked in a towel maneuvering in his muscly glory from the bathroom to his dorm room doesn't hurt either.) Each semester, you hope your class schedule coordinates with his so your chances of face-time (the real world version) in the hall between classes are increased.
In concordance with Murphy's Law (which was not on your last physics exam), you only bump into him on days when you've overslept after pulling all-nighters, and your unmade tired face prompts him to ask if you're sick.
Time slows down, and classic rock guitar riffs crescendo when this guy walks across the green. This senior is the collegiate poster-child, at the peak of his undergraduate potential, with the five o'clock shadow to match, and still unburdened by the unsightly realities of adulthood.
He's found the perfect homework/life balance, crushing midterms by day, and cans of Natty Light by night.
Half the class collectively swoons when he delivers anecdotes about taking his wife to the Met to see the latest exhibition on Stieglitz, Steichen, and Strand.
Gym excursions are exasperating enough without a hot guy prowling around in close proximity to your hip abductions.
You decide to look extra perky and full of health the next time you two "happen to be" doing laundry at the same time. Survivor of three more years of college than you, he's a downright scholar — learned, experienced, the most professional pre-professional.
You also decide to find yourself a better, more hygienic, love interest, because going six weeks between laundry sessions is cramping your style. Sophomore guys, who look like burly men compared to the boys you just left behind in high school, look like infantile amateurs in his presence.
What Bed Bath & Beyond can't buy you and what your required reading won't prepare you for is how you will soon be starring in a number of quasi-romantic narratives with settings from the laundry room to the lecture hall.
Nothing's sexier than a mature man who's smart as hell, accomplished, has his sh*t together, and knows how to wear a tailored suit. it's just that he's already married, so you have to hope that maybe one of the hundred dudes currently nodding off in your lecture hall reaches a comparable level of development a decade or two from now.
Your professor goes on entrancing tangents about obscure academic studies, and uses words you've never heard before (somebody hasn't been doing the readings).
You've only ever seen him in his uniform or sweats, but you know he'd kill it in a suit. Your collegiate world is confettied with his celestial presence — no effort need be expended on your part.
He frequently headlines the sports section of the university paper, all articles reading like fan fiction.