Page 3 of His to Teach

He looks up from his desk, eyebrow arched. "Miss Darling. Something unclear about the assignment?"

I clutch my copy of Mrs. Dalloway. "I was wondering if we might discuss my interpretation of the party scene? I think there are parallels to Joyce's gathering in 'The Dead' that complicate your reading."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Still challenging me, I see."

"I'm not challenging you," I say quickly. "I'm just⁠—"

"You absolutely are challenging me." He stands, towering over me. Six-foot-three at least, lean and powerful. "And that's precisely what this class is for. Sit."

I perch on the edge of the student desk nearest his, my heart hammering as he leans against his own desk, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing corded forearms dusted with dark hair.

"Well?" he prompts. "Convince me."

For fifteen minutes, we spar over Woolf's intentions. Each time I make a point, he counters with something sharper, more incisive. But he doesn't dismiss me. He engages, pushing me to refine my thinking, to dig deeper.

"You're making me work for this," I say, laughing a little.

"That's my job." His voice drops lower. "You're one of the few students worth the effort."

Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. I look away first, gathering my books. "I should go. I have psychology in twenty minutes."

He nods, professional mask back in place. "Next week's paper. Don't disappoint me."

I don't. I spend the weekend in the library, crafting an analysis of Hemingway's iceberg theory that I know will challenge him. When I turn it in, his fingers brush mine, sending a jolt through my system.

Three days later, he hands it back with a large A- circled at the top. "See me after class, Miss Darling."

The fifty minutes of lecture crawl by. Professor Davis is particularly intense today, tearing apart a senior's misreading of Fitzgerald with surgical precision. I should feel sorry for the guy, but all I can think is: Don't let that be me. Don't let him find me wanting.

When the room empties, Professor Davis closes the door. Not all the way—just enough to give us privacy while maintaining propriety.

"Your essay," he says, perching on the edge of his desk.

"You didn't like it?" My voice sounds small.

"On the contrary. It's excellent work." He taps the paper. "But you're holding back. There's something hesitant in your analysis, as if you're afraid to fully commit to your interpretation."

I bite my lip. "I thought I was being thorough by considering counterarguments."

"There's thorough, and then there's timid." He leans forward, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive. "You need to trust your instincts, Miss Darling. Your mind is exceptional. Stop second-guessing it."

Pride swells in my chest. "Thank you, Professor."

"It's not a compliment. It's an observation." His eyes narrow. "And an expectation for future work."

I nod, gathering my courage. "I actually have a question about your feedback on page four. You wrote that my interpretation of the bull-fighting scenes was 'reductive.'"

Something changes in his expression—a darkening, a focus. "You're questioning my assessment?"

My mouth goes dry. "I'm…seeking clarification."

"Are you?" He stands suddenly, moving into my space. Not touching me, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Or are you challenging my authority? Again."

The air between us charges with tension. I should step back. I should apologize. I do neither.

"Maybe I am," I whisper.

His jaw tightens. "You think you can question me, little girl?"