Page 54 of Damsel in Disguise

He stares at her departure form, making sure she’s out of earshot while subconsciously loosening his tie.

The movement draws my attention to the strong column of his neck, to the subtle flex of muscle beneath pale skin as he inhales deeply. His eyes close for the briefest second, and in that flicker of unguarded stillness. He looks stressed.

He seems as though preparing for a negotiation rather than a conversation.

It unsettles me for never being associated with that expression of his.

On screen, he’s always composed.

In lectures, he’s controlled.

In person, he’s usually unreadable.

Seeing that crack, however small it is, makes me wonder about the reason behind it. I lowkey feel like it’s related to me.

When his eyes open again and settle on me, they are steady, attentive, and far too aware. The strain is entirely gone.

“You shouldn’t be involving yourself in matters that exceed your coursework,” he says, not unkindly but without softness.

“I–I don’t understand?” the question stumbles out before I can polish it.

I suddenly feel caught under a spotlight for a crime that hasn’t been named yet.

He exhales slowly and sits on the couch across from me, leaning forward with his elbows resting over his knees. “Stop pretending, Ariella. It isn’t doing you any favors.”

That makes it twice tonight he has said my first name.

If my brain were a CPU, it would’ve short-circuited already. Steam would hissing through my ears from every rational process overheating.

“Ariella,” he repeats, and this time there’s a quiet warning threaded beneath the calm.

Thrice. If he keeps saying my name…

“Y-yes, Professor,” I manage, hating the way my voice betrays me.

I blame it on him for using my given name repeatedly.

My instincts are screaming code red. He shouldn’t know about the bike. About the fact that it’s me who’s been following him in the shadows. I was unconscious for five weeks for fucks sake, and on top of that, he somehow had access to my phone. Who knows what he saw?

He could’ve even broken into my apartment.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, not from excitement this time, but from the calculation.

“Hm?” his brows draw together slightly, noticing my expression shift.

It’s then I realize I’ve reacted out loud.

I close my eyes for a second, inhale, and smooth my voice into something steadier.

“I’m sorry,” I say, surprising even myself with the composure. “I shouldn’t have enrolled in a course that even most last-years thinks twice before taking. I have… connections. I wanted the challenge. I was too overwhelmed with the academics. I’m sorry that I got into an accident and you,” my eyes dart around for a second, “took care of the mess.”

It’s a partial truth wrapped in performance. My father did pull strings, but I also studied for two years to prove I deserved it more than half the seniors sitting in that lecture hall.

Alistair almost rolls his eyes. “You know very well that’s not what I’m implying.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re pursuing something that extend beyond academic curiosity.”