Chapter Two: Ego Wars
The familiar hum of pre-class chatter died in a wave of murmurs. I barely heard it, fumbling for my notes and pen, my head still groggy from the last dregs of that overpriced latte. It was the sharp, commanding tap of knuckles against the podium that finally made me look up.
And there he was.
"Hello," he said, his voice smooth as velvet, yet it carried across the lecture hall with an effortless authority that silenced the room completely. "I'm new. I'll be taking over this course for the rest of the semester."
No.
Freaking.
Way.
Every cell in my body went into shock, then outright rebellion. My pen slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering and rolling noisily across the polished desktop before plummeting to the floor. The sound was absurdly loud in the stunned quiet. I stared, unblinking, praying this was a caffeine-induced hallucination, a stress dream from procrastinating on my midterm paper.
But no. The universe was crueler and far more ironic than that.
The man commanding the front of the room—wearing a crisp, light-blue collared shirt tucked into tailored trousers, with sleek glasses perched on his nose that somehow made him look both intellectual and dangerously attractive—was him. Mall Guy. Coffee Shop Jerk. The human embodiment of a smirk who had crashed into my life, literally, less than twenty-four hours ago.
A hot wave of pure, unadulterated panic crashed over me. My fight-or-flight instinct, notoriously unreliable, chose a third option: vanish.
I ducked.
Yes. I, Aish, a supposedly rational adult, slid entirely out of my chair and under the wooden desk, as if the laminated particle board could shield me from this cosmic joke.
The resulting silence was profound for exactly two seconds before the whispers broke out, sharp and amused. A snicker cut through the air from my left. Someone to my right coughed, a poor disguise for a laugh. I squeezed my eyes shut, forehead pressed against the cool metal of the desk leg, wishing fervently for the floor to swallow me whole.
It did not.
Instead, a shadow fell across the linoleum tiles within my limited field of vision. Polished leather shoes stopped directly in front of my hiding spot.
A low, familiar chuckle echoed down at me. "Miss… hiding-under-the-table? Everything alright down there?"
My soul officially vacated my body, leaving behind a shell of sheer mortification. I groaned, the sound muffled by my knees, before summoning every ounce of willpower to emerge. I popped up like a deranged jack-in-the-box, my hair slightly wild, cheeks blazing.
"Yep. Fine. Just… dropped my pen," I stammered, grabbing the offending item and holding it aloft as if it were Exhibit A.
The entire class erupted into open laughter this time. Wonderful. My academic identity was now permanently cemented: Table Girl.
He adjusted his glasses, the movement slow and deliberate, but the smirk tugging at his lips was unmistakable. His dark eyes held a glint of pure, unadulterated amusement as they locked onto mine. "I see. Well, as long as you're… recovered." His gaze swept the room, effortlessly reclaiming control. "Shall we begin?"
---
The lecture began, but the words washed over me in an incomprehensible stream. My brain was a chaotic storm of humiliation and a strange, prickling awareness. Economic theories of marginal utility had nothing on the sheer utility of his presence as a distraction.
He paced as he spoke, his movements fluid and confident. Each time he passed near my aisle, I caught a faint, clean scent—sandalwood and something fresh, like rain on stone. It was unfairly pleasant. His voice, which had been teasing and light in the mall, was now a rich, compelling instrument. He explained complex concepts with a clarity that had even the most slumped students sitting up and taking notes. Of course. Of course he had to be brilliant, too.
I spent the hour in a state of simmering rebellion, doodling violently in the margins of my notebook. One sketch depicted a chibi version of him with a comically large ego balloon. In another, a tiny, heroic version of me was pushing him off a cliff labeled "Professional Boundaries." It was juvenile and deeply satisfying.
When the clock finally ticked to the hour, I was a coiled spring. I shoved my books into my bag with reckless speed, determined to be the first one out, to vanish into the student herd and never return.
My escape was almost successful. I was at the threshold, freedom in sight, when that voice—velvet wrapped in steel—stopped me cold.
"Miss Under-the-Table. A word?"
I froze, my shoulders tensing. A couple of passing students shot me sympathetic glances, which only made it worse. Slowly, as if moving through syrup, I turned.
He was leaning against the wall beside the now-empty podium, arms folded casually. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, and had taken off his glasses, letting them dangle from his fingers. The pose was too relaxed, too at ease in this space of authority.
"Yes, Professor?" I forced the title out, my voice tighter than I intended.
"Care to explain the… dramatic interpretation of 'dropped pen' earlier?" he asked, his head tilting. "Is that a new pedagogical technique? Immersive performance art?"
I met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "It was an advanced avoidance strategy. Clearly, it needs refinement."
He laughed then, a genuine, warm sound that seemed to vibrate in the empty space between us. It was infuriatingly attractive. A traitorous part of me wanted to smile back. I crushed it.
"You're bold," he said, the amusement still dancing in his eyes. "I like it."
"You said that yesterday," I shot back, immediately wishing I could swallow the words. Why did I have to admit I remembered?
His eyebrow arched, a predator sensing a stumble. "You remember what I said yesterday?"
Crap. I lifted my chin, feigning nonchalance. "You made a spectacle of yourself. It was memorable."
"Was it now?" His smirk was a masterpiece of smug satisfaction. He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between us by a few steps. The hallway was nearly empty now, the sounds of departing students fading away. The intimacy of the space suddenly felt charged. "Seeing as fate, or perhaps just terrible spatial awareness, seems intent on throwing us together, perhaps you should stop by my office hours. We can discuss your… participation. And your attendance record."
"My attendance?" I echoed, suspicion sharpening my tone.
A slow nod. "You were absent for the first two lectures of the semester. The previous professor noted it."
"I was sick," I lied, the excuse flat even to my own ears.
"Convenient," he murmured, his eyes scanning my face as if reading a text. They held a disconcerting sharpness, seeing too much. "A lingering bug, or a sudden aversion to Introduction to Economic Principles?"
The accuracy of the course title, delivered so easily, unnerved me. He'd done his homework. "Maybe I'm just selective about who I learn from."
The barb landed. His lips quirked, not in offense, but in clear enjoyment. "Ouch. And here I was, hoping to make a good first impression."
"You did. Yesterday. It was impressively bad."
He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Noted." He took another casual step closer. The subtle scent of his cologne wrapped around me. "So, what should I call you? 'Miss Under-the-Table' is a bit of a mouthful for the roll sheet."
The question hung in the air. I debated giving a fake name—Mina, Yuna, anything but the truth. But something in his expectant, challenging gaze made defiance rise.
"Aish," I said, the syllable short and sharp.
He repeated it, letting the 'sh' sound linger. "Aish." His voice softened around it, turning my ordinary name into something that sounded almost… thoughtful. "Pretty. It suits you."
The compliment, so simply delivered, disarmed me more than any smirk could have. A flush crept up my neck, betraying me. I clutched the strap of my bag like a lifeline. "Thanks. Can I go now, Professor?"
"You may," he said, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. But as I turned to leave, his voice followed me, low and promising. "Office hours are on the syllabus, Aish. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."
I didn't look back, marching down the hallway with my heart performing a frantic, irregular tap-dance against my ribs. I hated the certainty in his voice. I hated the way my name sounded in his mouth.
But most of all, I hated the treacherous, thrilling spark of anticipation that his words had ignited deep in my stomach. This wasn't over. It was just beginning. And the part of me that wasn't utterly horrified was dangerously, stupidly curious to see what would happen next. The war of egos had been declared, and I was right on the front line, whether I wanted to be or not.