𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 → 𝐥𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

07. bruised and bloody

friday,
september 11th, 2020

EZRA GREYSTONE

It's not until my Friday morning English lecture that I notice several cuts on Hemmings' hands.

They're splattered across his knuckles, open-wounded and blood-dried. There's also a hint of a bruise on the underside of his jaw, and I can tell he's trying to draw attention from it because he stands awkwardly so that his bruised side faces the whiteboard rather than the class.

"What happened to him?" I murmur to Lola once he's finished talking.

Lola shrugs, "Beats me. Looks pretty rough though. Didn't think he was that kinky."

"Lo!" I scold quietly, shaking my head as she giggles from beside me.

I glance away from the blonde, eyes landing on Professor Hemmings' tall, lean figure. He's shuffling around with papers on his desk, filing them neatly and once he's finished he looks up, directly at me. I freeze, feeling physically unable to divert my gaze and blushing at the thought of being caught red handedly staring. His jaw is set, lips in a firm line and eyes void of emotion and I almost feel like we're in a staring contest.

That is, until Lola nudges me.

"Ez, do you know what you're supposed to be doing?" she whispers, seemingly noticing my lack of focus.

"Hm?" I mindlessly hum, tearing my gaze from Hemmings before actually registering her question, "Uh, yeah. No, wait, I don't."

Lola smirks, "You know you have to concentrate in this class even if our professor is a sex God, right?"

I grimace, "Stop, I just zoned out for a minute!"

She rolls her dark eyes jokingly, "Read the first poem he gave us on Wednesday and write a personal response on how the content affects you."

I gulp, nodding my head before flicking through my English folder to find the poem, "How many words?"

"Anywhere between 1500 and 2000," she replies, already scribbling down her second paragraph.

"Three or four pages on a fucking response?" I grumble, sick and tired of writing personal responses since A Levels and just wanting to delve into the interesting stuff, "Do we need to redraft it?"

"Not until he analyses our first—"

"Miss Mannix, Miss Greystone."

His voice is like fucking butter and when I look up to find our English professor staring right at us, it takes everything in me for my knees not to weaken from beneath my table.

"Is there a problem with the work I assigned you?" His pale eyes narrow slyly, and I don't know if I'm going insane but I swear his gaze is more fixated on me than Lola.

"No sir," Lo and I respond together, my cheeks reddening and her leg impatiently bouncing next to me.

Hemmings walks around to the front of his desk, pointedly glaring at us— me, "Then let's cut the chat and get working, yeah?"

I clear my throat, bowing my head towards my empty page, "Yes sir," I mutter obediently, whereas Lola just huffs from beside me, returning to her work.

When the class ends, my page is still blank and I haven't even written a pathetic title.

"Fuck," I mutter, snapping out of my daydream and scrambling to pack everything into my backpack.