2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Anastasia
A fter walking Elijah and Megan to their class, I veer off toward the English wing, leaving the creative space behind me. As much as I’d love to fill my schedule with more creative classes, being a freshman means my options are limited. Aside from my photography class, the rest of my schedule is filled with Literature and general education courses.
I guess that's my own fault for choosing English as my major.
At first, nursing seemed like my only option. After my dad got sick, and the chemotherapy slowly drained his quality of life, the idea of watching someone go from healthy to bedridden felt unimaginable. Walking away from someone in pain, after I’ve exhausted every possible option to help them, seemed like something I could handle in a nursing position.
That ideology faltered when I was forced to face it in real life.
The brisk winter draft dances across my skin, urging me to tug on the strings of my hoodie, pulling the hood tight to shield myself from the cold. Like Elijah said, lately my wardrobe’s been nothing but oversized hoodies and warm joggers. Before college, I used to meticulously plan my outfits, always picking the best pieces to accentuate my features. Now though, hiding every inch of myself from prying eyes feels a lot more comforting.
I cross my arms, rubbing them as I count room numbers, trying to track down this damned Classic Literature class. Unlike Megan and Elijah, who had their schedules and routes memorized on day one, I’ve been taking my time learning the layout of the school. Today is the second day of the semester, and my first day in this class, thanks to the school’s alternating schedule.
Three classes a day, switching every other day.
The periods are long, but the class sizes are small, designed to make the teacher's lives a bit easier.
"408," I whisper, finally locking eyes with the bold numbers on the door.
Rubbing my hands together to ward off the cold, I look around, confused as to why I'm the only one waiting outside the classroom.
Odd. Most freshmen are eager to get a head start on class. Glancing at my watch, I click my tongue in frustration.
"Elijah and Megan's class has already started," I mutter under my breath, yanking my schedule free from my bag.
Dragging my finger down the paper, I stop at room 408’s first period start time.
"First period," I whisper. "7:30?"
"So where the hell is everyone?" I exclaim, my voice rising slightly as I glance around the empty hallway.
Running a hand through my hair, I tug my hood lower, making the executive decision to wait it out in the silent classroom. I nudge the door with my shoulder, half-expecting a room full of students to look up at me, silently judging me for being late.
But when I step inside, there’s no sign of life, just a cup of coffee sitting on the professor’s desk. I tilt my head, confused.
You’d think someone as old as Mr. Matthews would be punctual, especially when it comes to letting students know about a delayed start.
Elijah shared a few things about Mr. Matthews, mainly that he’s old, jaded, and hates his job.
Sounds like the perfect candidate for teaching, right?
I wander around the room, hands shoved in my pockets, admiring the vintage book posters on the walls. Most of them are dedicated to Midsummer Night’s Dream and other works by Shakespeare. But one poster catches my eye.
Tucked in the corner of the wall is a vintage Star Wars poster, somehow fitting in perfectly with the rest of the decor. I can’t help but laugh, amused by the unexpected pop culture clash.
"Elijah failed to mention Matthews is a nerd," I scoff, my voice tinged with annoyance.
I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, it’s not like an old man can’t still enjoy a little geeky charm, right?
But then a deep voice breaks through my thoughts, sending a jolt through me.
"Shit, am I late for a meeting?"
I snap around, my heart skipping a beat as I lock eyes with a man far younger than what Elijah described. Instantly, heat floods my cheeks, and my nosiness retreats, replaced by an overwhelming urge to just disappear.
The man stands tall, wearing a gray sweater and black slacks cinched with a brown belt, so perfectly styled, he looks like he stepped out of a Pinterest board labeled 'Dark Academia Outfits.' With golden-brown eyes, dark, short, curly hair, and slight stubble, he towers over me at a solid 6'4", his larger build hidden beneath the neat attire.
I try to focus on anything but how attractive he is, my mind scrambling for something intelligent to say. I open my mouth, but then quickly decide to shut it before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
"Oh, you're not a teacher," he says, his tone flat, completely uninterested in my presence. It's as if I’m the last person he expected, or wanted, to see.
I can feel my frustration building, and I retort without thinking.
"And you're not Mr. Matthews," I snap, pointing at him with an accusatory finger.
He raises an eyebrow and glances at his desk. Without a word, he grabs the nameplate and tosses it between his hands before holding it up for me to see.
"Mr. Ackerman, actually," he says, clearly vocalizing the name as if I should’ve known it. "I’m taking over for Mr. Matthews this school year."
Confusion rushes over me as I glance around the empty classroom.
"Taking over?" I repeat, frowning. "Where did he go?"
"Matthews got into some issues with his wife," Mr. Ackerman says, his voice flat and disinterested. "Seems a nasty divorce was enough to make him take a temporary leave of absence."
He leans back against the edge of his desk, grabbing his cup of coffee, and slowly takes a sip. His eyes linger on me, studying me like I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve.
"Where are all the other students?" I ask, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck and cheeks every time my gaze lands on him.
Fuck, when the hell has a teacher ever looked like that ?
"You like to talk, don’t you?" he asks with a hint of annoyance, flipping his wrist up to check his watch.
Scratch that.
Sexy face aside, he’s a total asshole.
"Well, given every other class started at 7:30-"
"Joy," he interrupts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "On top of dense questions and intrusion, you also clearly don't read your email."
I’m sure my jaw is about to hit the floor from the shock of his crudeness, but I manage to gather some courage to speak up.
"Last time I checked, your job is to educate, not to be a condescending asshole," I snap, my words biting. "Maybe next time you should lock the door if you don't want people walking in here. No, I didn’t check my email. I figured your class would be the same as all the rest-"
"I will ask you once to check your tone," he snaps back, his voice suddenly cold and sharp, like ice. "Today is purely an introduction. Admin decided a whole class period wasn’t necessary for that. Today, and only today, class starts at 8:00 am. But given you’re already here, I suppose I need to start getting ready now," he says this like I’ve interrupted some private moment.
"Right, because thirty minutes without students would have made you more pleasant," I mutter under my breath as he turns toward the board.
Instantly, I feel the air shift. He freezes and the chalk slips from his fingers. Slowly, he turns around, his expression darkening, and takes a step closer to me.
He's no longer the somewhat distant, if slightly annoying, teacher. Now, he’s standing just a few feet away, looking considerably less welcoming.
I take an involuntary step back, my lower back hitting the desk behind me, leaving me with no room to move.
"I told you to check your tone," he warns, his voice low and dangerous. "Given our brief introduction, I worry you and I aren’t going to see eye to eye in this classroom."
Brooding and intimidating, I pull back my shoulders, refusing to let this authoritative asshole see me back down.
The last thing I’m going to do is give him any ground.
"What a shame," I hiss, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge. I take a step closer, my gaze sweeping over him with cool disdain. The corner of my mouth curls up into a smirk. "I'm sure you would have loved for me to cling to your every word," I taunt, the sarcasm dripping from my voice. "But I’m sure you'll find plenty of eager students ready to become your teacher's pet," I grin. "Sadly, it won’t be me. So, if you’ll excuse me-"
I move my hand, intending to nudge him out of my way, but his hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with a vise-like grip, stopping me dead in my tracks. My breath catches in my throat, frozen in shock at his harsh response.
"You'd benefit from learning some respect," he whispers, tightening his hold on my wrist, his voice low and dangerous. "I suppose it’s a good thing I’m your teacher now."
I tug my wrist, desperate to break free, but my mouth is quicker than my mind.
"The only way anyone gets me to listen to them is when my wrists are bound to a headboard," I sneer, throwing the sexual imagery at him, hoping to rattle him. "So unless you're willing to lose your job, I guess you're out of luck."
I nudge him with my shoulder, my anger simmering just beneath the surface, and storm toward the back of the room to grab my stuff. But his voice halts me once again, sharp and commanding.
"Anastasia Burns," he says clearly, each syllable of my name punctuated as if he’s marking territory.
"Just Ana," I snap, irritation bubbling up. "No one calls me Anastasia here."
"Alright, Ana ," he beams, the sudden shift in his tone mocking me. Tapping his finger on one of the desks at the front of the room, he raises his eyebrows, daring me to argue. "You'll be sitting up here."
I scoff, looking around the classroom.
"I didn’t realize we had a seating chart," I mutter, irritation creeping into my voice.
"You do now," Mr. Ackerman smirks, clearly enjoying this moment of power.
As the classroom door opens and students begin to file in, he taps the desk once more, drawing my attention back to him.
"Better hurry, Anastasia," he says, his tone almost smug.
The moment I hear my full name leave his mouth, my stomach tightens. Flustered, I scramble to grab my things and take a seat, hoping no one notices the tension unfolding in front of them. As Mr. Ackerman walks away, a satisfied grin spreading across his face, the urge to kick him in the ankles is almost too tempting to ignore.
So flustered that I’m starting to overheat, I quickly tug off my hoodie. Looking down at my choice of clothing beneath it, it’s clear that comfort was my only goal this morning.
I’m wearing a tight, soft, light gray compression shirt, and it doesn’t take long to realize just how badly I should have worn a bra, given the chilly weather. With my larger breasts, the material clings to my skin, and my nipples are clearly visible through it. Paired with dark sweatpants that hug my curves and my larger ass, the outfit feels more suited for bed than for being out in public around my peers.
Note to self: never wake up fifteen minutes before you have to get to class.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to cover up, especially from Mr. Ackerman’s view. Leaning back into my chair, I glance around at my classmates, already pissed off when I realize that no one else seems to be following any kind of seating arrangement. They take seats wherever they please, and my gaze snaps back to Mr. Ackerman’s desk in frustration.
From behind his desk, he leans in, watching me with a satisfied expression, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to get under my skin.
"God, look at him," a girl behind me whispers to her friend, clearly drooling over the sight of our power-hungry professor.
"I wouldn’t mind staying after class with him," her friend purrs, the words making me legitimately want to vomit.
I can’t help but think how much he’d probably love hearing that, his ego no doubt swelling at the attention.
"Is anyone sitting here?" a voice interrupts my hateful stare at Mr. Ackerman, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Slowly craning my head, I lower my arms and look up at the bright-eyed man standing above me. He's wearing a Spokehaven University hoodie, and his wide grin somehow makes his blond hair and bright blue eyes shine even more in this light. He points to the desk beside me, and I do my best to gather my words.
"N-no," I stammer, forcing a smile as I wave for him to take the seat.
He sits down with that same grin, nudging his bag aside and settling into the desk with his broad build. Even so, he's not as tall as our professor.
I wonder if Professor Ackerman would even fit comfortably into one of these desks, given his size.
"Have you taken this class before?" the man asks, trying to make small talk.
"No, but it pertains to my major," I grin, the conversation starting to feel less awkward. "I’m a freshman."
"This was one of my general classes," he gripes, rolling his eyes. "Sophomore," he adds, clarifying as he extends his hand toward me. "Walker," he says, finally giving me a name.
"Ana," I beam, shaking his hand. "Are you from Spokehaven-"
"Alright, guys, I think that’s enough talking," Mr. Ackerman interrupts, his voice cutting through the classroom.
He grabs a piece of chalk and writes his name on the board, brushing off his hands afterward. He scans the room with a calculated look, and for some reason, it feels like his gaze is fixed on Walker and me despite the dozens of other students around us.
"I am Professor Ackerman," he announces, his voice firm. "I’m taking over for Mr. Matthews this year. Clearly, I am not the oldest professor on this campus, but don’t let that deter you from what kind of work I expect from you this semester. This semester you will all grow tremendously as writers and readers," he pauses, letting the words hang in the air before his eyes settle on me. "And you will do so with no lip."
My stomach tightens, and I raise my hand, already bracing myself.
"Yes, Ms. Burns?" he asks, his tone smug.
Fuck this guy.
"Mr. Matthews has years of experience under his belt," I start, my voice cool. "That’s why most of us did all we could to get into this class-"
It’s not a lie.
"How do you plan on competing with his knowledge?" I ask, throwing his age right back in his face.
A small scoff escapes him, and he walks over to my desk, tapping his knuckles on its surface as if to punctuate the moment.
"I assure you, Ms. Burns, my age does not hinder my experience whatsoever," he says, his voice dripping with self-assurance. "I’m sure you’ll see that."
My stomach drops, and an unwelcome heat flares up in a place I’d rather not admit to.
Satisfied by my silence, he grabs a book from his desk and waves it in the air.
"For the rest of class," he says, shifting back into his authoritative mode, "determine who your scene partner will be this semester."
He pauses, and I can see the weight of his words landing in the room.
"We have a long road ahead of us."