Between the desks

Chapter 55

Amren's POV

"Is it any good, professor?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly with hesitation, uncertainty creeping into the words. My heart was pounding in my chest, loud enough that I was sure she could hear it.

Professor Olsen cleared her throat, slowly lifting her gaze from the notebook. When our eyes met, something shifted inside me, a fluttering sensation I couldn't control. Butterflies—nervous, wild butterflies—filled my stomach, turning it into a chaotic mess of emotions. Why did I feel like this around her? It was so intense, so overwhelming.

But she didn't answer right away. Instead, she just stared at me, her eyes holding mine for what felt like an eternity. My heart skipped a beat. Anxiety started to bubble up, twisting with those butterflies. 

Was she judging my work? Was it terrible? Had I done something wrong? Why wasn't she saying anything?

"Professor?" I asked again, my voice shaking more now, betraying my unease.

She blinked, as though coming back to the present from somewhere deep in thought. "Yes, sorry," she said quickly, her voice sounding more composed now. But there was a flicker of something behind her eyes. She'd been somewhere else entirely for a moment. "It's good. You're making real improvement."

Her tone was firm, but there was an underlying warmth to it, an inviting quality that made me hang on every word. She was close—too close. My skin tingled with the awareness of her proximity, and for a second, I thought about how easy it would be to reach out, just to touch her hand or brush against her arm. Stop it, Am. You can't think like this. I scolded myself, trying to banish those thoughts.

But no matter how hard I tried to focus on the work in front of us, my mind was racing, filled with thoughts that had nothing to do with the assignment. I had to look normal, act normal. I couldn't let her see what was going on inside me.

"What should I do differently next time?" I asked, trying to sound eager for feedback, attempting to keep the conversation professional, though it was the last thing I wanted to be right now.

She laid the notebook gently on the desk between us, her fingers tracing over the pages. I watched her hand as she pointed out sections, her touch light but deliberate. Her fingers were long and her hands were a bit veiny. "Here," she began, her voice steady, "you need to expand on this idea more. And this part," she tapped the paper again, "it's good, but it could be stronger if you tie it back to the theme we discussed."

Her words flowed effortlessly, tips and suggestions rolling off her tongue with ease. She was giving me everything I needed to succeed, offering insights that would help me improve. But I wasn't listening. I couldn't.

I wasn't hearing anything she was saying because my entire focus was on her—on the way her eyes glimmered with intensity, on how her lips moved as she spoke, and the soft, almost imperceptible way she leaned toward me, closing the small gap between us. The air felt thick, charged, as if something more was happening beneath the surface of our conversation. I was mesmerized, completely caught in the gravitational pull of her presence.

Then her voice cut through the fog of my thoughts. "Amren, are you even listening to me?"

I snapped out of my daze, blinking rapidly, trying to refocus. "Uh, yeah," I lied, my voice unsteady.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a playful glint in them that told me she wasn't convinced. "What did I say?"

Panic shot through me. I couldn't remember a single word. My mind was blank, except for the image of her, so close, too close. I swallowed hard, stalling. "Uh, about this part that... uh, eeehm..." My voice trailed off pathetically. I was completely lost. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, professor," I admitted, my voice small and shaky. "I wasn't paying attention." I braced myself for her response, terrified of what she might say. Would she be disappointed in me? Angry? I lowered my head, too ashamed to meet her eyes.

There was a pause, but then, unexpectedly, I heard the softest sound, like she was holding back a laugh. I looked up, and sure enough, there was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "That's not very smart of you, Amren," she said, her voice teasing, but not harsh. It was firm, yes, but gentle. There was no real bite to her words.

I nodded quickly, feeling even more foolish. "I'm sorry, professor," I mumbled, my cheeks burning with shame.

"Hey, don't worry," she said softly, her voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Then, without warning, she placed her hand on my arm—a simple, almost casual gesture—but it sent a shockwave through my entire body. My skin tingled where her fingers touched, and a rush of electricity shot up my arm, down my spine. It was as if every nerve in my body had been set alight by that single touch. I didn't know how to breathe, didn't know how to think.

"I'll tell you again," she continued, her voice kind, as if she hadn't just completely scrambled my thoughts with that one, simple touch. Her hand lingered on my arm for just a moment longer before she pulled it away, and the loss of her touch left a strange emptiness behind.

And she did. She explained everything all over again—carefully, patiently, going over each point with the same detail as before. I tried to focus this time, tried to lock onto her words, but it was impossible to ignore the fire that was spreading inside me. I wanted to say something, to acknowledge the connection between us, but I couldn't find the words.

Instead, I sat there, nodding along as she spoke, trying desperately to keep myself composed while my heart continued to race uncontrollably.