Page 206 of Damsel in Disguise

“Come in,” the voice carries the same calm precision it always has.

When I step inside, I find him sitting on his armchair with several folders already arranged in perfect order.

A laptop is open. Old journals are stacked neatly beside it. Sheets of handwritten notes are spread across the table.

Everything is exactly where it should be. Everything except him.

What is it? I can’t explain it.

He looks the same with his glasses and an immaculate suit. His posture is straight, and his expression is as unreadable as ever. Yet something feels subtly out of place.

“Professor,” I choose the formal way to address him and close the door behind me. “I was beginning to think you secretly lived here.”

“I’ve been accused of worse things,” he tries to keep his tone light as usual, but the ever-friendly smile is nowhere in sight.

Which makes the joke sound oddly serious.

“That’s not a denial.”

“I’m well aware,” he admits without ever looking at me.

Even so, the office feels familiar. This room has witnessed endless debates, impossible assignments, and more arguments than I care to count.

It’s where our entire academic relationship was built.

Perhaps that’s why the uneasiness fades almost as quickly as it appeared.

He motions toward the chair across from him. “Sit, Miss Keinston.”

I do.

“The records I mentioned…” he then spreads several research files before me, along with engineering reports and handwritten observations.

I lean over the desk and pick up one of the documents.

My brows lift almost immediately. “These are the original laboratory records.”

Alistair only hums in response.

I turn another page.

The familiar recursive model stares back at me, except this version carries years of handwritten corrections in the margins.

Different ink. Different dates. Entire calculations crossed out and rebuilt from the beginning.

“You actually found them.”

“I told you I would.”

A strange smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “For someone who enjoys acting mysterious, you could’ve simply admitted you hid the entire archive from your students.”

“It was merely waiting for someone to ask the correct question.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something a villain would say,” I try to joke, glancing up.

Normally, there would be that faint, almost imperceptible smile that followed my remarks. Today, there’s only the statement itself.

The next half an hour passes so naturally that I almost forget everything that happened between us.