Page 2 of His to Teach

I resume the lecture, but my awareness of her never fades. She takes notes furiously, head bent over her paper, occasionally looking up with those enormous green eyes. Each time our gazes meet, she blushes but doesn't look away. It's maddening.

I assign discussion groups halfway through class. The students rearrange themselves, and I circulate, listening. When I approach Flower's group, a lanky senior—Mathews or Matthews, one of those privileged types with more confidence than intellect—leans toward her. His mouth hovers near her ear as he whispers something that makes her smile.

My vision narrows to a pinpoint. Blood rushes in my ears.

Before I can stop myself, I'm standing over them. "Mr. Mathews, if you're so eager to share your insights, perhaps you'd like to present them to the entire class?"

He straightens, face paling. "I was just telling Flower that her interpretation was impressive, Professor."

"Miss Darling," I correct him sharply. "And I don't recall asking for commentary on your classmates' abilities. I asked for analysis of Joyce's use of snow as metaphor."

Mathews fumbles through a half-coherent response. I barely hear him. I'm too consumed by the urge to drag him from his seat, to make it clear that she is not for him to impress or charm. She belongs in my intellectual sphere, not his mediocre one.

When class ends, students scramble to escape. Not her. She gathers her things slowly, precise. As she passes my desk, I speak without planning to.

"Miss Darling."

She stops, turns. "Yes, Professor?"

"Your analysis was flawed but not without merit. I expect more rigorous textual evidence next time."

Her face breaks into a smile so genuine it's almost painful to witness. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

As she walks away, I know with absolute certainty what I've never known before: she's already mine. The semester has only just begun, but something primitive and inevitable has been set in motion. I should stop it. I won't.

I'm a man of control and discipline. I've never crossed lines with students. But watching her leave—small frame, delicate steps, mind like a steel trap behind that innocent face—I know I'm fucked.

And I don't give a damn.

two

. . .

Flower

I've always believed that learning was the purest pleasure in life. Books have been my sanctuary since I learned to read—worlds where I could be understood, where being quiet and curious wasn't a liability. But Professor Davis's Advanced Literary Analysis seminar is testing that belief. Not because the material is difficult—I can handle Joyce and Faulkner and Morrison—but because I can't concentrate when he looks at me with those dark, penetrating eyes. When he called on me that first day, challenging my interpretation of "The Dead," my voice shook but my mind was clear. Now, three weeks into the semester, my mind clouds every time he says my name.

"Miss Darling."

He always says it like that—formal, with a slight emphasis on "Miss" that makes it sound almost like a caress. No one has ever said my name that way before.

"Your essay on Woolf's stream of consciousness technique?"

I fumble through my folder, painfully aware of twenty pairs of eyes on me. My hand trembles slightly as I pass the paper forward.

Professor Davis scans the first page, his expression unreadable. At thirty-seven, he's the youngest tenured professor in the department, but there's nothing youthful about the way he commands the room. Every movement deliberate. Every word precisely chosen.

"An interesting thesis," he says finally. "You argue that Woolf's technique isn't merely aesthetic but fundamentally political—a feminist rejection of male narrative authority."

I swallow hard. "Yes, sir."

His eyes find mine, dark and intense. "Surprisingly insightful."

Two words. Just two words of praise, and heat blooms in my chest, spreading upward to my cheeks. I shouldn't care this much what he thinks. But I do. God help me, I do.

After class, I linger, arranging my books slowly while other students filter out. This has become my ritual—finding excuses to stay behind, to engage him one-on-one where I don't have to share his attention.

"Professor Davis?"