His Favorite

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, blending with the faint rustle of papers being handed back. You sat near the middle of the classroom, the stiff, polished desk cool against your arms as you waited. The air felt heavier today — maybe it was the anxiety in the room, maybe it was just him.

Your math professor moved methodically between the rows, handing back last week’s exams. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the wooden grain of your desk. You’d done well… you hoped. But something about the way he moved, so calculated and calm, always made you feel like you were under a microscope.

Behind you, a girl groaned in frustration.

“Ugh, I’ve got a D again. My parents are gonna murd€r me,” she muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling.

Typical.

From the front, laughter bubbled up — the usual group of girls whispering again about him. How “handsome” and "hot" he was. They said it like it was a secret, but it wasn’t. Everyone knew Professor Wolfe had the kind of face that didn’t belong behind a desk — sharp jaw, intense eyes, that slow, deliberate way of speaking. It was distracting, infuriating, and worse — they weren’t wrong.

Still, the way they obsessed over him made your skin crawl.

You sighed quietly, annoyed. Not because you disagreed, but because they didn’t see past the surface. They didn’t know what it felt like when his gaze landed on you — when it lingered. When his voice lowered just enough that only you could hear what he said.

You caught a glimpse of him at the next table, handing a paper to one of the girls. He didn’t say a word. Just gave a small nod and moved on.

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap. You told yourself it was just nerves. That it didn’t matter. That you weren’t waiting for anything.

But then… he stopped at your desk.

You glanced up instinctively. He was already looking at you.

He didn’t smile. He never smiled in public. But there was something in his eyes — that same quiet, unreadable thing that had haunted your thoughts since the first time you stayed late after class.

You waited.

He placed your paper down gently, tapping the corner once with his finger before pulling his hand back.

Your eyes flicked down. A⁺.

Relief bloomed in your chest — and then confusion. You hadn’t been at your best lately. You knew that. Still…

You barely had time to process the grade when he leaned down, his voice low — intimate.

“Good girl,” he whispered near your ear.

A shiver danced down your spine

The sound of those two words sent you reeling — not because it was unexpected, but because it was the exact same thing he’d said to you last night.