The Teacher and I - A Tom Hiddleston Story

One

Today started out like any other day, just like it usually did. My alarm would call out to me like a wailing siren, and I’d have no choice but to turn it off. It was raining outside – bucketing, actually – and it quickly turned into one of those days where the urge to stay in bed was simply too overwhelming.

But as I prepared to turn over, I caught sight of the stack of papers sitting on my desk; an incredibly long essay on the works of Shakespeare and one of his sonnets. I’d spent hours on it, having finally crawled into bed at around five-thirty in the morning.

Groaning, I rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. The onslaught of the light damn near blinded me, and so I bumped my toe at least three times against the cabinets. Ignoring the throbbing pain, I quickly brushed my teeth.

Sparing a glance at the clock that I kept overhead, I almost swallowed my toothbrush in shock. It was eight-forty-seven, and class started at nine. So, in a blind daze, I threw on the closest set of clothes I could find, shucked my hair up into a pony-tail, and almost forgot to bring the essay I’d spent nearly all night writing.

I’m an English Major, specializing in Literature, and for me, both reading and writing is just absolute heaven. Not a day goes by where I’m not buried nose-deep in a new book or going blind from staring at the screen of my phone for hours on end.

I’d been fascinated with literature since I was young, and yearned to be a writer one day, despite the pleas from my parents to become something more important. I ignored them, and with a tearful goodbye, I left my parents and moved in to a small studio apartment just east of my university for the duration of the course.

The rain seemed to almost burst holes through my umbrella, and a few times I had to run for cover under a tree of a street post to unfold my umbrella from being pushed inside-out from the heavy winds. My hair was soaked, and I just prayed that my essay was still intact.

The campus was around a twenty minute walk from where I lived, but today, it seemed to take hours. Thunder rippled across the sky, and, sparing a glance at my wristwatch, I saw that I was running late.

Again.

Huffing impatiently, most lazy English-Literature students would have sat in bed all day on a day like this and went through their essays. Not me, though. Here I was, soaked to the bone, and my shoes getting soaked in the mud as I cut across the pristine grass of the campus – Northridge University.

Skidding through the hallways, I ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. My watch indicated that I was running ten minutes late.

Shit, I though miserably, he’s going to kill me for real this time!

Who is he, you ask?

He is my teacher. My handsome, British, sexy piece of a man who always dressed like he was attending some prestigious award ceremony – Mr. Thomas Hiddleston.

Quickly, I approached the door, and sucked in a deep breath. I could literally feel the gaze pinned on the door as I took the handle in my palm and pushed it open.

Around eight sets of eyes immediately turned around to pin their gazes on me, and I tried hard not to blush as I hastily made my way down the stairs to an open seat.

“Bennett,” I heard a smooth voice call out. “You’re late.”

I froze on the spot.

Turning, I saw him standing down at the head of the class. One arm folded across his chest, one eyebrow cocked as he watched me, book clad in the other hand. He was wearing a white shirt, rolled at the sleeves, a silken vest, and black slacks that matched the vest.