Mr. Knight/A Jordan Knight Fanfic ✔️

1

Part I
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1. aesthetics

The three flights of stairs before me might as well be Everest, only instead of snow and rocks barring my way, it's students loitering before their first class of the quarter.

Like them, I'm late. Unlike them, I hate being late. Especially today, as my class is a thousand times more important than whatever introductory English course these fresh-faced undergrads are too lazy to reach on time.

For starters, I'm not a student. At least not at the moment. I'm supposed to be assistant teaching a small group of English majors in a classroom that still, after two flights of stairs, seems to be a continent away.

On the plateau before my final ascension, I'm confronted by a group hogging the space. They're talking and laughing loudly, unmindful of those of us who actually give a shit about academics.

"Excuse me, please!"

Despite my lofty graduate-student status, no one bothers moving. I'm forced to dive through them like I'm spelunking instead of mountain climbing. Not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately. I blame my mother, who bestowed upon me her diminutive stature, pale blonde hair, and perpetually fey features.

A glance at my watch tells me I have less than a minute until I'm going to make a terrible first impression on the professor.

I break into a run, messenger bag bouncing against my hip as I dart up the final staircase and down a rapidly emptying hallway. Ignoring the twinge in my bad knee, I skid to a stop before the desired door and yank it open.

Thank God.

Pre-class antics are still taking place. Students are chatting, slapping notebooks and pencils on desks, fiddling with smartphones, or surreptitiously slurping coffee and munching breakfast bars.

A glance toward the head of the room gives me my first look at Professor Jordan Knight, who was supposed to be at the faculty luncheon yesterday but never showed. On paper he's scary as hell: acclaimed poet, award-winning, New York Times Bestselling author of crime fiction, and newly appointed Director of the Creative Writing Program.

Thanks to borderline-obsessive Google searching, I know what he looks like. But all I can see right now is brown hair tousled to the kind of accidental perfection normally not seen out of magazine spreads. His face is downturned, eyes on the open notebook on his desk. He writes furiously, the movements harsh and slashing. Left-handed.

As I walk closer, I have an unhealthy urge to snatch the notebook away and read it.

"Professor Knight?" I ask breathlessly.

He grunts, not looking up. A glance back at the class shows me faces angled toward us in curiosity. Some are familiar from previous courses, and I trade a few smiles.

"Are you going to talk or just stand there?"

The rude question is made irritatingly musical by a Boston accent. My head whips back around, a flush rising to my face.

"I'm sorry?" I squeak, then clear my throat. "I'm Darcy Davis. Your TA."

The pen finally stops moving—it's not a slow fading of mind-body transfer but a savage stop. His head comes up, brown eyes narrowing on my face. I stop breathing for a few moments, feeling like an insect under a pin. The dissection of my person lasts long enough that I hear students begin to whisper.

Then, with no shift in expression, he glances over my shoulder toward the wall clock. "You're late," he says sharply, and stands with a screech of wooden chair legs to address the class.