12. ASSISTANT
ariella
Miss. Keinston,
I’d like to discuss your approach to today’s problem set. Your performance so far places you among the strongest in the cohort, and I’m interested in your academic trajectory. If you have time after Wednesday’s lecture, visit me at my office.
Best regards,
Alistair Hertley
Senior Professor of EEE Department.
Oxford University
Oxford, England, UK
The email arrived at 14:17.
Exactly fifteen minutes after his last class ended.
I felt the vibration in my pocket while crossing into the garage, reaching for my bike, already angling my route not to intersect his, but reluctantly going home instead.
I ignored it at first—dismissed it as another useless group-chat ping.
So I drove to my apartment only to find a mail from him.
Both regret and a butterfly crashed over me.
Regret from not following after. Butterflies because… you know.
I read the mail once. Then again. And again and again. Until the words threaded themselves into my neurons and refused to let go.
Thank you. I’ll be there on time.
I bit back hard on my lips to stop a grin from breaking onto my face, chanting his name over and over again in my head.
In the end, I ran around the empty apartment, squeaking and screaming from excitement overload.
I’d call this decent progress.
Right now I’m walking after him. He didn’t remind me about the meeting during the class. He just looked at me directly over the rim of his glasses just as the class ended.
That look said it all. He’d read my reply email.
Ever since I’d read his email, the rest of the time passed with me unusually light on my feet til now.
When other students chattered about weekend plans and deadlines, I let my attention drift just enough to be in the present. But inside, I was already rehearsing. Not what I’ll say but what I won’t.
And now all I can do is watch him. The sway of his overcoat in the breeze. The unbroken line of his posture. The warmth of his smile as he greets people by their last name in the corridor.
He isn’t the kind of professor who intimidates by scowling. He disarms with a smile instead—soft, practiced, unsettling in its restraint. I wonder, not for the first time, what he keeps buried beneath it.
I notice my steps have synced with his without conscious effort. My grip tightens on my backpack straps, grounding myself.
It feels like stalking, but with permission. Like he knows I’m there, yet he’s letting me.
My heart rate spikes up, the way it always does when something aligns not as I anticipated.
Did I move too fast? Followed too closely? I can feel how obvious it must look. It was all good til I was watching him from the shadows.
I shouldn’t have followed his car. I bite harder on my bottom lip, feeling a nervous tingling kick into my stomach.
“Miss Keinston?”
His voice snaps me back. I blink several times to refocus. He’s holding the door open for me, watching me with polite concern.
I clear my throat. “Y-yes, sir?”
I was so lost in my head that I don’t remember getting here.
The path from the lecture hall to his office is a blank canvas—stairs or elevator or some warped combination of both. I glance around, trying to orient myself.
How am I supposed to find this place again on my own?
Come on, Ari. You’re not this pathetic.
You followed him for years. And finally, on a bike in real time. In a leather suit. Like a professional!
Everything is different when I’m operating behind a screen or a mask.
Pretend you’re hiding behind one.
“We can reschedule if you’re feeling unwell,” he says gently, interrupting the clash in my head.
“No,” the word slips out too fast. “No—I’m fine,” I move past him before he can reconsider.
He follows in after me.
The door closes behind us with a soft click. The sound slides down my spine like a warning—I’m alone with Alistair in his office.
My throat suddenly goes bone-dry. I swallow hard, unsuccessfully. From the corner of my eye, I watch him circle the desk and lower himself into his leather chair, the motion unhurried.
“Have a seat, Miss Keinston,” he gestures to the chair opposite him, then leans back, confidence radiating from the way he settles into his space.
“Thank you,” I murmur, sitting.
“Relax,” he says calmly. “This is just a brief conversation between a professor and one of his best students.”
“Best student?” I repeat, before I can stop myself.
“Yes,” he leans forward, elbows resting on the desk. “Given how recently the term began, it’d be highly unfair to phrase it in any other way.”
My heart flutters in my chest. I try not to focus on the ring shining on his finger and let the heat climb my neck, then spill onto my cheeks.
Dopamine hits like a surge, dizzying in its precision. I interlock my fingers under the desk and grip hard, trying to steady myself.
This is exactly where I wanted to be. And exactly where I can’t afford to lose control.
He watches my reaction too closely.
I try to recover—pull myself back into alignment, but my body betrays me anyway. My fingers curl tighter in my lap. My knees press together instinctively.
I nod once, then again, like I’ve forgotten how moderation works. “I—thank you,” my voice comes out smaller than I expect. Softer. Embarrassingly earnest.
He seems to notice, but with amusement.
“You don’t need to look so alarmed,” he says mildly with a smile. “This isn’t a reprimand.”
“Oh. I—” I swallow. “I didn’t think it was.”
That’s a lie. I thought it was everything. A trap. A test. A door closing or opening. I didn’t know which.
In my head, I’m already screening a movie of our happily ever after together.
His mouth curves slightly, making my pulse stutter.
“I’ve been reviewing performance across the cohort,” he continues, folding his hands together atop the desk. “Yours stands out. Consistently. Not just in correctness, but in how you think.”
“I just… study,” I murmur, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of his granite desk.
“I know you do.”
I risk a glance up.
His eyes are on me. He’s memorizing this version of me—the flushed cheeks, the way I’m trying not to fidget, the barely contained excitement humming under my skin.
“As you’re aware, we have an upcoming examination cycle,” he informs. “Preliminary moderation before Finals preparation begins.”
I nod quickly, even though my brain is lagging.
“And I’m short on time. What I need is reliable assistance.”
My heart kicks. I’m scared he might hear it from outside.
“I can’t offer anything formal,” he adds. “This would be confidential. You’d help with reviewing problem sets, checking scripts for inconsistencies, and flagging conceptual ambiguities. Nothing published or attributed,” he leans back slightly. “But it’d require discretion and discipline.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. I don’t know what I wanted to say, or if I even wanted to say something.
“I—I’m only a first-year,” I say weakly, even as something inside me thrills at the contradiction. “I don’t think I’m—”
“I know exactly what year you are, Miss Keinston.”
The way he says that specific sentence makes my stomach dip. A million butterflies flutter their wings inside.
“And that’s why I’m asking you. But at the same time, I won’t be forcing you,” he continues. “This is entirely optional. You can decline if you want to.”
“I’d like to help,” I react too quickly. “I mean—if you think I’m capable… I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”
There it is. The timid schoolgirl in me. The girl who wants to be chosen. Approved. Seen.
“Never doubt yourself. I wouldn’t have asked you in particular if I didn’t believe in you.”
My breath catches. Did he just say he believes in me?
I nod, unable to stop myself. “Yes,” I whisper with a small, genuine smile. “Then yes. I’d like that.”
“Good girl,” he says with a smile, but it looks more like a smirk.
A small whimper nearly slips free.
Butterflies erupt low in my stomach, violent in their softness. I curl my fingers into my palms until my nails bite, forcing my body into stillness. I’m not letting him see how deeply that simple two-worded phrase is affected me.
“We’ll start from next week,” he adds, already reaching for a folder. “An hour. Perhaps two if you’re okay. I’ll have my secretary clear access for you. Let me know when it’s convenient for you. And also feel free to step back any time you want.”
He’s giving me free access to his faculty room. This is more than what I could dream of—more than I’m allowed to want.
“And Miss Keinston?”
I look up instantly.
“This arrangement remains strictly professional yet confidential,” he says, his tone flattening into something precise and unyielding.
“You may approach me via email regarding any academic matter at any time. However, outside of formally scheduled consultation hours or the allocated working time, there’ll be no written correspondence.
Any necessary in-person meetings are to be limited to scheduling only. Is that clear?”
I nod obediently like his trained pet to respond before any rational thought catches up. “Yes. Of course. I understand.”
And I do.
This will be our quiet, contained, carefully hidden moment from the rest of the world.
Our little rendezvous.