Sorry sir

The morning air at the conference hall was a mix of coffee, chatter, and the faint hum of projectors warming up. I found myself slipping into my role quietly, helping with last-minute setup, arranging files, and making sure everything looked just right. The room buzzed with senior professors greeting each other, shaking hands, and exchanging updates. Somewhere in that crowd, I caught sight of him. The tailored black-and-white suit fit him perfectly — crisp, clean, with the faintest glint of his watch catching the light. From the back, the straight lines of his shoulders made him look like he belonged on the cover of an IEEE magazine.

He was on stage, discussing something with another speaker, but our eyes found each other across the room — just for a second, almost as if by accident. A small curve touched his lips before he went back to his conversation.

I kept busy, but those glimpses kept happening. In between presentations, while I was organizing documents at the side table, I’d feel his gaze brushing over me before slipping away.

It’s lunch break. The room is filled with chatter as people gather, forming small groups, discussing what’s happened so far at the conference. He’s with his senior group, naturally the centre of attention — but as you watch them from a distance, feeling a bit like an outsider, you decide to slip away for a moment. You find a quiet corner, away from the crowd, trying to collect your thoughts and let the whirlwind of the day settle.

You’re sitting there, eating your lunch in solitude, when you suddenly hear footsteps approaching. You look up, and there he is. It’s almost like he sensed you needed a break from all the noise. Without missing a beat, he takes a seat next to you, his lunch tray in hand.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks with that calm, collected smile, and something in his voice is warm — like he genuinely cares.

You’re in this small bubble, just the two of you, the conversation flowing easily. Maybe he asks about your thoughts on the conference so far, or maybe you talk about something more personal, something that feels a little more real and less academic.

Every now and then, your eyes meet — those quick, secret glimpses — as you share this quiet, private moment in the midst of the chaos of the conference. It’s the kind of peaceful, unspoken connection that feels so rare, and yet here it is, happening between you two.

You both start with safe ground — the newest electrical engineering hot topics buzzing around the conference. He talks about a breakthrough in power electronics; you counter with your thoughts on how it might change design practices. The back-and-forth feels easy, natural. At some point, he leans in slightly, not out of necessity but because he’s genuinely invested in what you’re saying.

Once that intellectual flow settles, you both shift into something lighter. Your eyes subtly drift to the people in the room, and you make a sly but harmless comment about someone’s overly flashy presentation slides — the kind with too many animations. He smirks, clearly amused, and fires back with his own witty observation about another participant’s endless jargon.

You start to trade little bits of playful judgment, nothing cruel — just enough to share the fun of noticing the quirks around you. It’s this mix of academic banter and subtle mischief that makes the moment so electric. He seemed amused that I could keep the humour sharp without losing professionalism.

His POV:

She wasn’t like the others. Most students, when I spoke to them, nodded politely and stayed in that comfortable distance between respect and detachment. But she leaned in. She had opinions. A sense of humour that caught me off guard — and a way of balancing it so it never crossed the line. I’d underestimated her before, thinking of her as just another diligent student. Now I was realizing she wasn’t just bright, she was… engaging. And maybe that’s why I didn’t want lunch to end.

He’s not just seeing you as a student anymore — he’s recognizing you as a capable peer, someone with both intellect and personality. And maybe… that makes you a little more magnetic in his eyes than he expected.

When the noon break came, I found myself in an empty conference room with my work spread out. He was at the other end of the long table flipping through a magazine. The big table between you feels… too much. Too far.

After a few minutes, you glance up. “Sir, can I ask you something about this?” you say, holding up your notebook. His eyes lift immediately, and without hesitation, he gestures to the chair next to him. “Of course,” he says, and there’s an ease — almost an eagerness — in how quickly he puts his magazine aside.

You slide into the seat beside him, close enough that you can hear the subtle shift of his breathing. As you explain your question, he leans in, scanning your notes. His voice is calm, patient, and there’s something about the way he’s fully tuned in to you — not distracted, not rushed.

You get into problem-solving mode, scribbling on the page, head tilting as you think. You barely notice, but he does — the way you absentmindedly tap the pen against your lips, how your brow furrows when you’re figuring something out. He doesn’t say a word, but his gaze lingers just a moment too long before looking back at the paper.

When you finally solve the problem, your face lights up a little, and you can almost feel his eyes on you again — not just as a mentor proud of a student, but as a man quietly fascinated by the way you move, the way your mind works.

The silence between you isn’t awkward; it’s thick with an unspoken awareness. You both go back to your tasks — him to his magazine, you to your notes — but now you’re sitting side by side, and every small movement feels amplified.

His POV:

She didn’t notice the way she tilted her head when she concentrated, or how she absentmindedly tapped her pen against her lips. I did. She was right here, close enough for me to see the small crease between her brows when she worked through a problem. I shouldn’t be watching this closely. She’s my student. But… I am.

Your head is resting on your folded arms on the table — or maybe on the small sofa in the corner — your breathing slow and even. A faint strand of hair has fallen across your cheek. For a moment, he just… watches. He tells himself it’s harmless curiosity, but he knows it’s more than that.

There’s something about seeing you like this — outside the sharp focus of academic conversation — that catches him off guard. You’re not just the capable, articulate assistant he’s been impressed with all day. You’re… softer here, quieter. Unguarded. And somehow that makes you even more magnetic.

He wonders when exactly you stopped being just another student in his mind. Maybe it was your quick wit over lunch. Maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you solved that problem earlier. Or maybe … it’s been building longer than he’s willing to admit.

A glance at the clock reminds him the next presentation’s coming up. He hesitates before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“Hey… wake up,” he says gently, his tone far warmer than usual.

You stir, blinking yourself back to awareness, clearly still a little disoriented. Your cheeks are flushed from sleep, your hair slightly mussed. “Sorry,” you mumble, “I didn’t even realize I—”

He shakes his head with the faintest smile. “It’s fine. You looked… comfortable.” There’s a pause, just long enough to make you wonder if he meant something more

The presentation hall is dim, the projector humming. This time, he isn’t presenting — he’s in the audience, and when he spots you looking for a seat, he subtly gestures to the empty chair beside him. “Sit here,” he says simply, in that low, even tone that doesn’t invite discussion.

You slide into the chair, setting your notebook down. Almost immediately, he leans toward you just enough so his voice won’t carry to anyone else. “I’ll dictate. You take notes for me.”

You nod, ready — but the topic on screen is highly advanced, way above your coursework. He starts whispering key points, and you scribble them down diligently. Whenever something flies over your head, you tilt toward him and quietly ask for clarification. Sometimes, he gives you a serious answer. Sometimes, you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he finds your confusion oddly endearing.

And because you’re you… you start slipping in extra silly little side questions in the margins.

_ “What did he even mean by converting High voltage DC to AC directly?”

_ “Why is the dude blinking like he’s sending Morse code?”

_ “What exactly is the difference between Smart grids and Micro grids?”

Later, when I handed the notes over, he spotted them. His lips twitched in amusement. I tried to pull the paper back before he could read more, but he kept it just out of reach.

“Very academic,” he teased quietly, his eyes glinting, “I’ll have to keep you in my team for… comic relief.”

The day eventually wound down, the conference closing with dinner. I tried mingling with the student group, laughing at shared stories, but my gaze kept drifting to where he stood with his peers. Every so often, I caught him scanning the room, eyes passing over the crowd as if searching for something — or someone.

His POV:

Where is she? Strange how I’ve started keeping track without realizing it. I’m used to events like this — the routine, the repetition — but today’s felt different because she was there. I don’t want to admit how much I’ve noticed her absence across the room. I tell myself it’s just professional concern, but I’m not sure I believe it.

It’s not like him to let his focus drift at professional events. Yet, here he is, scanning the tables until he spots you with the other students. You’re smiling, but something in your body language tells him you’re not fully there. And, annoyingly, he finds himself wanting to be the reason you’re more at ease.