Page 35 of Damsel in Disguise

I try to recover—pull myself back into alignment, but my body betrays me anyway. My fingers curl tighter in my lap. My knees press together instinctively.

I nod once, then again, like I’ve forgotten how moderation works. “I—thank you,” my voice comes out smaller than I expect. Softer. Embarrassingly earnest.

He seems to notice, but with amusement.

“You don’t need to look so alarmed,” he says mildly with a smile. “This isn’t a reprimand.”

“Oh. I—” I swallow. “I didn’t think it was.”

That’s a lie. I thought it was everything. A trap. A test. A door closing or opening. I didn’t know which.

In my head, I’m already screening a movie of our happily ever after together.

His mouth curves slightly, making my pulse stutter.

“I’ve been reviewing performance across the cohort,” he continues, folding his hands together atop the desk. “Yours stands out. Consistently. Not just in correctness, but in how you think.”

“I just… study,” I murmur, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of his granite desk.

“I know you do.”

I risk a glance up.

His eyes are on me. He’s memorizing this version of me—the flushed cheeks, the way I’m trying not to fidget, the barely contained excitement humming under my skin.

“As you’re aware, we have an upcoming examination cycle,” he informs. “Preliminary moderation before Finals preparation begins.”

I nod quickly, even though my brain is lagging.

“And I’m short on time. What I need is reliable assistance.”

My heart kicks. I’m scared he might hear it from outside.

“I can’t offer anything formal,” he adds. “This would be confidential. You’d help with reviewing problem sets, checking scripts for inconsistencies, and flagging conceptual ambiguities. Nothing published or attributed,” he leans back slightly. “But it’d require discretion and discipline.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. I don’t know what I wanted to say, or if I even wanted to say something.

“I—I’m only a first-year,” I say weakly, even as something inside me thrills at the contradiction. “I don’t think I’m—”

“I know exactly what year you are, Miss Keinston.”

The way he says that specific sentence makes my stomach dip. A million butterflies flutter their wings inside.

“And that’s why I’m asking you. But at the same time, I won’t be forcing you,” he continues. “This is entirely optional. You can decline if you want to.”

“I’d like to help,” I react too quickly. “I mean—if you think I’m capable… I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”

There it is. The timid schoolgirl in me. The girl who wants to be chosen. Approved. Seen.

“Never doubt yourself. I wouldn’t have asked you in particular if I didn’t believe in you.”

My breath catches. Did he just say he believes in me?

I nod, unable to stop myself. “Yes,” I whisper with a small, genuine smile. “Then yes. I’d like that.”

“Good girl,” he says with a smile, but it looks more like a smirk.

A small whimper nearly slips free.