Nineteen-year-old Namora Mursings has fallen in love with her married teacher, Mr. Vincent Williams. Knowing the consequences of her infatuation, she still decides to pursue him.
Vincent takes her for a troubled girl still on an identity quest and w...
Heaaaavily unedited. I'm really glad you guys are liking the story! ❤
YOU'RE UNPREDICTABLE.
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"Mr. Williams, I need your help," I walk up to his desk after class, unabashed, waving a piece of paper in my hands.
It occurs to me that I wouldn't be doing this if it were a few days ago. Just goes to show how much our relationship has progressed from what it was.
He looks up at me, rolling his eyes, but I don't miss the small twitch of his lips at my expense.
"Yes, Namora?"
"The homework you gave... I'm having difficulty with it," I pout, scratching the back of my head.
He raises his eyebrows, "and? I can't give you special attention, Namora."
I shake my head, "they'd come asking for your help too if you weren't so intimidating and scary." And funny. And pretty. But I don't want him to have an ego boost.
Rolling his eyes, he argues, "so you don't find me intimidating and scary?"
"I do. But I've seen the person that hides behind that cold façade. And believe me when I say he's an amazing person," I stop myself from saying anymore when he narrows his eyes at me.
Those scathing blues still leave me tongue-tied. Not that I'm complaining.
"There you go again, saying stupid things..." He sighs, rubbing his temples.
"...just this once. Give me your paper."
I don't need to be told twice, instantly sliding my sheets over to him.
I watch him scan what I'd already written, his eyebrows raising at certain points (probably because of my handwriting, which looks like chicken scratch), nodding to himself at other intervals.
And it suddenly hits me then that I'm witnessing another side of Mr. Williams; a side of him where he's so immersed in what he's doing that he's tuned out his surroundings, left his soul in the world of literature.
And I love it; I love the way his blue eyes shine, the way his cheeks turn rosy, so utterly concentrated in my incomplete analysis. I wish he could show even half of that enthusiasm when he speaks to me; I would die happy.
"Namora... something tells me you're just being lazy," he finally says, shooting me an accusing glare.
I huff at his accusation, pouting, "no, I genuinely need help."
He raises his eyebrows, "so tell me then, how you were able to map out the themes but unable to describe them? Comparing this essay to your previous, I can say with full certainty that description is definitely not your weakest point."
I shoot him a cheeky smile, "then, what's my weakest point?" You.
