"Hello," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "I'm new, Professor. I'll be taking over this course for the rest of the semester."
No. Freaking. Way.
Every cell in my body froze. My pen slipped out of my hand and clattered onto the desk, echoing louder than it should have in the hushed classroom. I blinked, hoping my eyes were lying to me, that I was hallucinating from too much caffeine and too little sleep.
But no. The universe was crueler than that.
The man standing at the podium—the one wearing a crisp collared shirt tucked neatly into dark trousers, glasses perched on his nose like he belonged in a drama poster—was mall guy. The jerk who'd crashed into me, smirked his way through an apology, and then vanished like a storm cloud.
I wanted to melt into my seat. Instead, I did the only logical thing my brain could process at that moment.
I ducked.
Yes. Under the desk. Like a complete idiot.
Muffled whispers broke out instantly around me. I heard someone snicker. Someone else coughed to cover their laugh. I pulled my knees to my chest and pressed my forehead against the cold underside of the desk, praying invisibility would finally be an option.
But it wasn't.
A shadow moved across the floor, and I knew before he spoke that he'd seen me.
He stifled a laugh. "Miss hiding-under-the-table? You good?"
My soul left my body.
I groaned loudly, smacking my forehead against the wood once, twice, before forcing myself upright. "Yeah, I—dropped something," I lied, grabbing my pen like it was an Oscar-worthy prop.
The whole class erupted in muffled laughter. Perfect. Just perfect. Now I wasn't just "late student" or "quiet girl at the back." I was officially Table Girl.
He adjusted his glasses, smirk tugging at his lips like he was enjoying my downfall a little too much. His gaze lingered—sharp, observant, the kind that made you feel both seen and exposed.
I sank lower in my seat, cheeks burning. Why was life so obsessed with humiliating me in public?
---
The lecture began, but honestly, I heard none of it. My brain was too busy spinning in circles. Every time he paced across the front, I caught the faintest whiff of cologne—subtle, fresh, unfairly expensive. Every time his voice deepened around certain words, students leaned in like he was reciting poetry instead of economic theories.
Of course he had to be smart on top of infuriating. Of course.
I doodled angry chibis in my notebook to cope. One had his stupid smirk. Another was getting hit by a cartoon bus. Very therapeutic.
When class finally ended, I packed my things at lightning speed and bolted for the door. My survival strategy was simple: avoid him forever.
But, of course, fate hated me.
"Miss Under-the-Table," a deep voice called behind me.
I froze mid-step. A couple of students chuckled as they passed, giving me pitying glances. Traitors.
Slowly, I turned. "Yes, Professor?"
He was leaning casually against the wall near the door, arms folded, sleeves rolled up just enough to make veins distractingly visible. His grin was sharp, like he was biting back laughter.
"Care to explain the floor routine earlier?" he asked, tilting his head. "Was that a stress coping mechanism or...?"
I deadpanned. "It was avoidance. And it didn't work."
He laughed—actually laughed, low and warm, like I'd just made his morning. The sound tugged at the corners of my lips against my will, but I quickly bit the smile back.
"You're bold,i like it." he said, amusement glinting in his eyes.
I narrowed mine. "You already said that yesterday. Is it your catchphrase or something?"
He raised a brow, intrigued. "You remember what I said yesterday?"
Crap. I'd walked right into that.
My jaw clenched. "You ran into me. Of course I remember."
His smirk widened like he'd won a chess match. "Well, seeing as fate clearly wants us to bond, how about you stop by my office hours? We can talk about your attitude—and your attendance."
"My attendance?" I echoed, suspicious.
"You weren't here for the first two lectures," he pointed out smoothly.
"I was sick," I lied without blinking.
"Convenient," he murmured, clearly unconvinced. His eyes flickered over me, sharp but unreadable, as though he could see through flimsy excuses.
I crossed my arms. "You're enjoying this way too much."
He shrugged, lips quirking. "Only mildly."
Ugh. Who made this man professor of anything? He looked like a walking CELINE ad with the ego of someone who probably thought Shakespeare wrote just for him.
I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The hallway was clearing out, students vanishing until it was just us. For some reason, that realization made my pulse kick up a notch.
"So," he continued, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "What should I call you? Aside from 'Under-the-Table,' obviously."
I blinked. "My name?"
"That would help," he teased, adjusting his glasses.
I debated lying just to mess with him, but against my better judgment, I muttered, "Aish."
He repeated it slowly, like tasting the syllables, his tone infuriatingly smooth. "Pretty name."
I ignored the warmth creeping up my neck. "Thanks. Can I go now?"
"You can," he said easily, stepping aside. But the smirk on his lips promised this wasn't the end.
Something told me avoiding him was going to be impossible.
And honestly? I hated how part of me wasn't sure I wanted to.