Mister

Mr. Nix is both admired and feared in the classroom, carrying a certain sharpness about him. He can be frustrating, yet I still think he’s the most attractive professor at the university.

He stands tall with his hands clasped behind his back, and his presence often eclipses the lecture itself. His teaching style is distinct, and he never repeats himself.

I watch his lips move—full and captivating—but his commanding presence makes it hard to focus on his words. Concentration in this class feels impossible; he completely distracts me.

“Am I boring you, Miss Layla Micheals? That’s not my intention, though I am rather annoyed by how often you seem to drift off in my class.”

I sit up in my stadium seat, watching him stand rigidly straight, hands clasped behind his back. His stormy gray eyes seem to pierce right through me, even from the front of the class. I can feel their intensity despite being five rows up in this stadium-style room. I know that if he wanted, he could be in front of me, pressing me with his deliberate authority. My silence isn’t what he expects from anyone here, and it’s earning me a deep furrow in his brow.

What do I say?

My ass is sweating.

I have entirely forgotten how to speak.

“Well, Miss Michaels? As you know, I don’t repeat myself, so I expect an answer.”

“No, sir.”

His eyes narrowed, and I knew that wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“No, sir, what?”

Oh crap. “No, sir… you are not boring me.”

He stands ramrod straight, his gaze locked on me without a blink.

I shift in my seat, trying to ease the pressure building in my head. The stress is already giving me a headache.

“Now that I have your attention, how about I keep it? Am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” I nearly lose it at the absurd and intimidating way he looks at me before turning back to the lesson.

Of course, my neighbor and best friend Jenna can’t let this slide. She flicks my thigh, but I’m too scared to take my eyes off the back of Mr. Nix’s head. I can still see her in my peripheral vision, though, and she’s about to lose it completely. Her hand is over her mouth, muffling what I can only assume is a laugh. Panic rises—this is not the moment to be associated with her.

Oh God, she’s about to explode.

Her muffled giggle slips through her fingers, but I keep my eyes glued to the whiteboard. When he turns around, I’m determined not to be linked to her disruption.

She’s gone, her laughter getting the better of her. Jenna can’t help it—she laughs at the worst possible times. She’s the one you avoid sitting next to or even glancing at during anything serious. I keep my eyes locked on the whiteboard, biting my bottom lip to keep from joining her.

He turns, and all I can think is, *It was nice knowing you, Jenna.*

“Am I funny, Miss Givens? Do you get your kicks from me reprimanding unresponsive students?”

His focus on her sobers her laughter, but it’s already too late.

“No, sir, I apologize.” Her voice trembles, and I can’t tell if it’s from holding back laughter or the weight of his attention.

I see the fire in his eyes, and when they shift to me, I quickly look down at my hands, wringing them in my lap.

Thankfully, he lets it go and continues his lesson. I’m sure he thinks we’re immature brats—far from the truth, but probably how we come across half the time.

As the lesson ends, I can’t help but notice again when he faces the class—those lips, pillowy, soft, thick, and sensual. His vest rests neatly over his chest, not overly broad but still muscled, a swimmer’s build, someone who’s spent years in the water. His dark jeans fit snugly at his waist.

“Miss Michaels, see me after class.” His words land with abrupt authority, impossible to ignore. I stay seated, even as Jenna slips out the door the moment she can, not sparing me a glance. If I could get away with flipping her off, I would.

He slowly gathers his things into his satchel, showing no concern for the fact that I’m still sitting there waiting. After a few minutes of watching, I finally muster the courage to ask, “Is there something you need from me, or am I free to go?” I assumed this was his way of forcing my attention, turning it into some sort of teaching moment.

“Have I dismissed you, Miss Michaels?”

“Not yet, sir.”

I swear he enjoys making us squirm. His long legs close the gap between us until he’s just one chair away. Mr. Nix sits down, crossing his ankles. His cologne—or maybe body wash—is distracting, rich and woodsy, the kind of scent clearly designed to draw women in. It makes my head spin.

I look away, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly before turning back.

“I’ve noticed you’re never really present in my class. Is something going on? Maybe something I can improve?”

I cough, choking a little on my own spit in surprise. “Excuse me, Mr. Nix?” I clear my throat. “No, you’re not doing anything wrong. I just get a little distracted sometimes, and I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“I didn’t say I was doing anything wrong, but if there’s something I can do to keep your attention on me, I need to hear it.”

It’s always on you, that’s the problem. “No, sir, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Okay, let’s see about helping ourselves do better in my class, yes, Miss Michaels?”

“Yes, sir.”

He’s quickly at his desk, grabbing his satchel and slinging it over his shoulder as he walks out. Even thrown off by our conversation, I still find myself watching his backside as he leaves.

“Are you still alive?” I hear her voice, though I can’t see her.

“Yes.”

I swing my bag over my shoulder and meet her just outside the door, still catching the scent of his cologne lingering like a smokescreen in the air.

“You know, you need to control yourself in this class,” she says, mimicking Mr. Nix’s stern tone.

“You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Did he say that?”

“No, but he didn’t have to.”

“Want to go out this weekend?” Jenna asks, wiggling her brows.

“Ask Rosie.”

“I want to go with you, Layla.” Her whiny tone grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

“I have tests to study for, and if I want to get out of that asshole’s class, I need to focus on his exam next week.” Jenna’s always ready for the next party, unlike me, who could spend days lost in books and alone time.

“Please, Layla.”

“I’m not feeling it, and like I said, I want to graduate on time, and I can’t if I don’t pass his class.”

“Fine, Layla, you’re turning into an old lady right before my eyes. These are supposed to be the best years of your life, and you’re wasting them.” She argues like that will change my mind, then stalks off with a salty kiss to my cheek.

The coffee house is nearly empty, just a few students scattered around. I order a strong black coffee and settle into my usual corner facing the front door—another story for another time.

I flip open my well-worn copy of *Little Women*, my favorite book, its battered state giving it away. My eyes trace the familiar words, but that unsettling feeling of being watched creeps in again. I glance up—nothing. I shrug it off and keep reading.

I take a careful sip of the hot, almost offensively strong coffee as a rich scent of dark woods surrounds me. I don’t dare look up at the person I know it belongs to, keeping my gaze fixed on the same few lines I’ve been rereading.

“So, you can focus long enough to read a book but not enough to learn anything in my class, Miss Michaels?”

Mr. Nix. Caught. But what do I even say?

My tongue feels useless, tripping over any attempt at words.

He just chuckles, shaking his head in mock disapproval, then slides into the booth in front of me. Now I’m left staring at the back of his head, full of inky black curls, as he settles in, relaxes, and sips his coffee.

He’s my distraction.

I can’t focus on my book anymore, though I could probably recite every word by heart.

I sway gently, closing my eyes to the vision of perfection before me. Mr. Nix isn’t like any man I’ve met. His beauty feels otherworldly, sharpened by his impeccable style and ruthless edge. For every reason I can name, I want to sit with him, to see if there’s any softness beneath those sharp corners, to ask what made him so sharp and rigid. But I doubt the strict Mr. Nix would welcome that. Despite my inability to focus around him, I love hearing him speak. The way he commands a room, demands to be seen and heard—it’s his confidence. All of it tangles me up inside, making it impossible to think straight when he’s near. His is the only class I’m failing—not because of his teaching, which is remarkable—but because I can’t stop wondering where else in his life he takes command.

Frustrated at my lack of progress, I slam my book shut and stand, my thoughts a storm in my head. With a huff, I sling my bag over my shoulders and leave the café, wondering if maybe I just need a night out with Jenna.

I feel those eyes on me again, and my pace quickens. To anyone else, I might look unhinged, running from something unseen, but I know it’s not nothing—I can’t ignore it.

Inside my dorm room, I lock the door and lean against it, scanning the room. Everything looks untouched, undisturbed. Then my phone vibrates in my bag, startling a small sound out of me.

The ringtone blares, my dad’s signature tone slicing through the silence like a knife. I fumble to answer before he worries too much.

“Hello?”

“Layla, how are you? Everything okay?”

I can hear the tremor of worry in his voice.

“I’m fine, Dad. Just had to dig through my bag to find my phone.”

“Always keep it out, Layla, in case you need it quickly.” His disapproving tone makes me feel like a little girl again. “You can never be too careful. Understand?”

“I do, and I’m sorry.”

I hear him take a deep, refreshing breath over the phone and move around. “How are classes going?”

“Well, they could be better. I’ve got A’s and B’s in all but one class.”

“And which one is that, sweetie?”

“Communications, Mr. Nix’s class. He’s kind of a tyrant.”

My dad bursts into a rich laugh that quickly turns into a full belly laugh. I didn’t think it was that funny, but I’d rather hear that than get another lecture about improving.

“You’ll figure it out, I bet.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How’s everything else? How’s Jenna? Are you seeing anyone?”

“Jenna’s a full-time job, and no, Dad, I’m not dating.”

“Yes, Jenna is quite the handful.”

“Everything okay with you and Mom?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just asking. Dad, I have homework to start.”

“Okay, well, take care of yourself, Layla, and call me if you need anything. I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The conversation replays in my mind long after we hang up, every word and silence lingering. For some reason, the sincerity in his voice when he said he loved me unsettles me. Maybe it’s just everything piling up, and I need a good night’s sleep.