Chapter Text
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You stood outside the wooden doors of the small lecture hall your next class would be in. Playing with your phone in an attempt to make the time pass quicker, you noticed as students started to fill in around you. They paid no more than a glance of attention your way, assuming you were just another undergrad before moving on. This wasn’t a class you were attending though, this was the first class you were a teaching assistant for in your graduate program.
Sure, you’d TA’d a couple classes your senior year of undergrad, and everything had gone smoothly then, but this was a much smaller and more competitive program than you’d been involved with before. The faculty in this English department alone were some of the most prominent names in academic writing, while others were highly anticipated up and comers in the fiction world. Although you’d originally applied to assist in an introductory fiction writing course, to your dismay you’d been asked by the chair of the department, Professor Downey, to assist one of their newer faculty members with their Survey of British Literature course. Professor Downey, who begged you to call him Robert, had swore he’d tried to find you a TA position in a creative writing class, but when the spots were already filled by other grad students that were further along in their studies, he’d offered you the next best thing.
Professor Chris Evans was currently the new darling of the department, having taught several writing courses in his first year, as well as publishing three award winning short stories within that time. And as the department needed an instructor for their second introductory Brit Lit class that semester, they’d decided to push more responsibility on him in his second year, and had him fill the spot. He wasn’t known as a lit professor, but “Robert” had complete faith in him, and even more faith that he could help you find your place among the English department.
The class before yours seemed to be using every second of their allotted time, and you felt your heel bounce in anticipation. Professor Evans and you had been emailing back and forth for a week, but you two hadn’t met yet. Rumors swirled from a few of the other grad students, and the consensus was that he was ridiculously attractive. Many swore he could be an actor or model if writing didn’t work out. And as tempted as you were to google him, you used all your self control to wait to see him in person.
When the instructor of the class before yours finally dismisses her students, you back away from the doors in just enough to time to not get mowed down by the rushing undergrads. You enter the room first, leading in the wave of students in your class. You always hated sitting up front in any class, but TAs either sat at a separate desk in the back or in a front row. This intro to Brit Lit class was taking place in a small lecture hall with plastic seats and wooden, swinging desk arms, so you had to sit up front.
You opt for the seat against the wall on the front row, and you dig in your bag for the attendance roster, as well as your laptop. Students talk enthusiastically as they settle in behind you, and you try your best not to stare at the door in anticipation for Prof. Evans’ arrival. You skim the last email you’d exchanged with him, checking that you’d printed enough of his syllabi and assignment sheets for the class.
The second he pushes through the wooden doors, the roar of students quiet. Your fingers fidget against the corner of the desk as you keep your back to the entrance. Whispers and murmurs are exchanged by the students as he makes his way down the aisle. He steps onto the small stage at the front of the class, and you catch your first glimpse of him. His brown hair is slicked back, and his shoulder to hip ratio alone nearly forces a groan from your throat. No one’s shoulders should be that broad compared to the rest of their body.
He's wearing a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of dark gray slacks that hugs his ass just perfectly. He turns to face the class as he pulls a flash drive from his bag and you try not to stare openly. He's clean shaven, showing off his jawline and cheekbones, and his cornflower blue eyes appear intense even from afar.
Every rumor had very clearly been true.
After setting up his presentation for the class he looks up at the room, his gaze bouncing over the students. You drop your stare immediately and act like you're preoccupied with something in your bag. Although you try your best at appearing to not watch him, you can still see him searching the room from the corner of your eye.
Eventually his gaze settles on you and you glance up from your desk to meet his eyes. A small smirk spreads across his lips as he takes a step back from the podium and points your way. You give him a little nod as you push out of your seat, and a full grin breaks out across his lips. If your hand hadn’t been clutching the edge of the desk, your weak knees might have caused you to fall.
As you approach him, he takes two large strides toward you and sticks his hand out. “(Y/N)?” he asks with raised brows as you reach him.
“Uh,” you begin as you slip your own hand in his and shake it. You try your best to form words but his eyes are even deeper up close, and you feel like drowning in them. You blink twice, mentally berating yourself, before nodding your head, “Um, yes. I’m (Y/N).”
“It’s great to finally meet you,” he says as an easy smile pulls on his lips. He places his other hand over your joined ones, and just for a second you let him hold your hand in his. Already feeling the heat of anxiety or attraction rising in your chest, you pull back from his grasp and tuck your hand in your back pocket.
“Uh, you too,” you smile politely back at him.
“I’ve been listening to Robert talk about how excited he is to have us work together, for weeks now,” he begins as he drops his hands to his sides and moves back to his podium. You follow him and try your best to pay attention to his words, and not his pouty bottom lip as he speaks. “He hasn’t shut up about how good your writing is since he picked you to TA, and he can’t wait to see how much you’ll progress by the end of the semester.”
Prof. Evans places an elbow against the edge of the podium as he turns back to you. There is something so casual about how he speaks and holds himself, like he considered you an equal and not a graduate student.
“Yeah,” you chuckle nervously. “He hasn’t stopped sending me your published stories since I first met with him to talk about TA-ing.”
“Oh god, I’m sorry about that,” his eyes crinkle as he shrugs bashfully.
“No, no, it’s okay. Robert’s just really proud of what you’ve done, and I’ve enjoyed everything he’s sent me.”
“Really?” he asks, as he raises his brows. You nod at him and he lets out a sigh of relief with a smile. “I’m happy to hear that, we’ll have to talk more about writing then.”
You glance at your phone realizing class starts in a minute. “That sounds nice,” you smile sincerely, feeling nerves already boiling in your stomach at the thought of this beautiful and talented specimen reading anything you’ve written. “Um, I’m gonna go pass out the syllabus and assignment sheets,” you say taking a step back from Prof. Evans and pointing over your shoulder.
“Oh yeah,” he says straightening up and realizing the time. “Of course,” he agrees quietly as he brings his presentation up on the projector.
You turn your back on him to find the entire lecture hall full of students, and their eyes are all on you two. You take a deep breath and try to ignore the flush starting in your cheeks.
This was clearly going to be an interesting semester.
As the first Brit Lit class came to an end, you move to gather all the assignment sheets you would have to grade for attendance. A couple students approach you to introduce themselves and you greet them warmly but professionally, telling them if they have questions or need help with anything, that your office hours are listed in the syllabus or they can email you at any time.
Prof. Evans is swamped with many more students wanting to shake his hand and speak with him. You decide to just pack up your things and head out, and maybe give him a short wave goodbye. As you make it back to your seat and place all the assignment sheets in your folder, you feel a gentle brush against your arm. You glance over your shoulder to find Prof. Evans standing behind you with his phone in hand. After you slide the folder into your bag you turn to face him, noticing three students still waiting to speak to him at the podium.
“Hey, great first class,” he starts politely. “Can I get your number?”
You blink for moment, trying to control your shock. You always had instructors’ phone numbers in case you had to get a hold of them at a weird time, but none ever asked for yours.
“I don’t check my email often enough, so this will be the best way for us to get in contact,” he explains as he lifts his phone to you.
“Sure,” you manage to nod before taking his phone from him and entering your name and number in his contacts. As you hand it back to him, he breaks out in a grin.
“Awesome, thanks,” he says as one of his hands brushes your elbow gently.
“No problem,” you respond, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across your skin that radiates from where he just touched you.
“I’ll see you Thursday,” he says as he moves toward the podium, his smile never faltering. You nod at him and turn back to your bag, already feeling butterflies tickling your stomach.
This man is going to be trouble for you.