Mackenzie's POV

The lecture hall was noisy as everyone gathered their things to leave. Professor Simms' most recent lecture was so eye-opening I had not been able to draw my attention away. That was until he handed us the essays that he had marked. A B+... I spent all weekend making it perfect and here I was staring at a B+. This was going to put a dent in my GPA so I needed to know what I did wrong, why it wasn't good enough.

He grabbed his black briefcase; I slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped forward but was stopped in my tracks when another of my classmates got to him first. I waited until they were done but they left the class together in conversation. I followed behind, waiting patiently. I hadn't much time, in two hours I had a quick shift at the coffee shop nearby and then I could have all day to myself. Something that I hadn't gotten in quite some time.

College wasn't really what I was expecting. It was all about the schedules and the connections. The former for success and the latter for fun. The latter, I had been avoiding. It was bad enough I was socially awkward but I was also bland. Nothing was interesting about me. Talking to people wasn't a strong suit of mine. The checklist was still unchecked. No friends, no fun. The only thing that could be considered fun was my classes. That was as much human contact that I've had since the party last Friday.

I was jolted back when Professor Simms entered his office closing his door behind him. Sure, I didn't want to be one of those overachiever's but my grades were important. If I couldn't maintain that, then I would only be proving my father right and what would have I achieved? Nothing. An experience? One that I would have nothing to show for. Dad was an army man, he didn't comprehend failure. He wouldn't stand for anything less than perfect results.

I knocked on his office door and entered after being invited in. He was sitting around his desk, exhausted from his previous lecture by the looks of it, guilt touched my shoulder but I brushed him off. "Sorry to bother you Professor but I don't understand what I did wrong. It was perfect."

Dr. Simms sighed, already knowing what this was about, "Grey," he pulled his chair closer to his desk, "Your essay was well written, very articulate, an amazing job."

"I'm sensing a but." I sat down in a chair in front of his desk and prepared myself for the criticism I was about to receive.

"But," he paused, "It's too perfect. It lacks any real substance. The essay was about analyzing a love story of any famous person or any staple fictional character in history who you feel has affected how love is perceived."

"And I did that." I showed him the essay paper again, holding it so he could see it as if he had his eyes shut when he was reading it before.

His words came out slow and tired, "But did you?" He asked, "That essay was written excellently but it was unrealistic. There is no such thing as a fairytale love, Grey." He got up and sat on his desk to the side as he explained.

"Love and attraction are twisted; it's messy. David Levithan said, 'That strange, twisted, torn love. That conflict between what your heart knows is right and what your mind is told is right.'" He got up off the table and retired to his chair where he leaned into, "Your essay lacked what makes love real, true conflict. No love is perfect, Grey."

Maybe he was right. Could a perfect love not exist, I thought to myself. For years, I watched them live in bliss. My parents, I mean. Their love reminded me of that high when I rode the Ferris Wheel for the first time. Joshua Bates, my first crush at my side sat still as we went up. Just as young as we were. When I looked down I felt my insides fall a dreadful sweet thing. Was that too much of a fairytale? My head hurt.

Professor Simms opened a drawer from behind his desk, "Maybe this can help. It's a past student's essay." I took it from him and read the topic."

"Can I borrow this?" I asked pointing to the stapler, he nodded.

I started getting really bad headaches, they come whenever and stay for hours, other times minutes. My vision blurred as I tried to blink them clear. "That reminds me, you-" His voice warped itself, complete distortion. The words that followed I couldn't hear sounds instead of words as my mind spun.

I stapled.

Pain. Sharp and piercing. An accident that brought me back. Back from the whirlpool, that my consciousness had fallen into. My mind slowed and so did my heart. I winced and cursed under my breath, "Shit," and groaned. I grabbed a fee tissue from the box on the table, wrapping it around my finger, squeezing it tight, adding pressure to stop the bleeding.

I looked up to see a queasy Mr. Simms. He probably wasn't a fan of blood. "Sorry Professor, I'm a full-time klutz," I told him.

He loosened his tie, and cleared his throat, sitting up in his chair. He looked uncomfortable, "Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. Nothing a band-aid can't fix." I smiled, trying to assure him. "What was it that you were saying, professor?"

He looked around and I could see him visibly swallow, he looked down behind the desk, "Uh," He smiled as if he was trying to remember what he had said, "Use this instead," he pulled out a folder and pushed the drawer shut. "Let's try to stay away from sharps object from now, shall we?"

I chuckled, "Yeah, thanks, professor." I nodded and grabbed my stuff. Professor Simms walked me out, "You're welcome." Then he closed the door behind me.
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Third Person P.O.V

Mackenzie had stapled her finger on accident. She cursed, "Shit." The Professor suddenly didn't feel so tired anymore. Instead, he was parched. His heart rate went up and his member hardened, blood rushing down to his nether regions.

It was only now that Tomas noticed how pink in colour and smooth Mackenzie's lips were or how full her chest was. 'Just right,' he thought to himself. It was true, he had a wife but there was something about this brown-skinned female that made his heart skip a beat. Maybe it was the bloody tissue she was clutching her finger with, the crimson water leaking out. He fixed his gaze on her finger and shifted in his seat.

Mackenzie looked at him, dead in the face. He had the insatiable urge to make her avert her gaze. He felt she was challenging him. "Sorry Professor, I'm a full-time klutz."

A sense of humour, one he imagined how it would feel to break, to see her cry. He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. His insides were heating up, increasing his excitement. He suppressed it. He did not want it to show.

"Are you okay?" He asked, deciding that it would come off abnormal if he hadn't shown any concern, that he may come off creepy.

She told him that she was fine and proceeded to inquire about what he had said to her earlier when she had spaced out. He swallowed hard as he looked behind the desk into the drawer with the vermillion sweater she had left in the lecture hall. "Uh, use this instead. Let's try to stay away from sharp objects, shall we?" He handed her an empty folder which she took.

She said her thanks and he walked her out. As soon as she left, he locked his door and rushed back to his desk, fully loosening his tie as he pulled the drawer open and grabbed the sweater from it and put it on the desk.

He ogled at the door, a longing was left with him then he buried his face into the vermillion sweater. He inhaled deeply, breathing in Mackenzie's scent as if it was pure oxygen. His core hardened and this time, he did not suppress it.
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Mackenzie's P.O.V

I searched through the aisles of the library, searching for any book that could help me ace this essay. Hopefully, if I could write a better essay, I could argue that I misunderstood the prompt. I walked down an aisle only to see a tall guy with lots leaning against a bookshelf while on a call. He spoke in hushed tones, "Chester, I can't keep giving away this shit."

I approached slowly, giving him time to hang up without it seeming like I was eavesdropping. Truth is, if he's having a conversation in the library, one of the quietest places on earth then the call must have not been that private. He must've not heard me, instead he continued his conversation.

For fear of communicating with human beings, I pretended to be interested in some other books. A minute passed and he hadn't sensed my presence. My impatience got the best of me so I walked up to him and tapped the guy on the back. "Could you move for a sec, so I grab a book?"

"You know where I'll be," he ended the call and as if I hadn't just asked him to move he said, "Say please."

He turned around slowly, at his own pace and that was when I noticed it was the guy from the party. He looked way taller standing than when sitting. Would he remember me or was he too high to, I thought? "Oh hey, Pancake," He greeted me, his voice hushed, respect for being in a library. That answered my question.

"Hi."

He chuckled, with a soft and pretty smile. It was weirdly unusual. I caught myself wondering how can such a delicate laugh escape such a serious-looking face, "Are you always this socially standoffish?"

I was slightly offended even though I knew it was true but I ignored him. "You're still in the way," I remind him but he doesn't budge.

"Say please." He folded his arms again, across his chest, getting comfortable once again, leaning against the bookshelf. The headache resurfaced again and on instinct, as if preparing for impact, I clenched my jaw. I rubbed the back of my neck and looked at the oaf whose goal was to ruin my day.

It's as if he saw through the glamour I was putting on. He saw that I was tired and that I would rather be anywhere else but here. Without another, he moved to the side, leaving the area open. This was my chance to grab the book. I tipped on my toes, reaching for the book.

"Trying to improve a certain set of skills?" He glanced at the book, a snigger in his voice and a cheeky grin. My fingers brushed against the book and I missed it.

"None of your business," I grunted as I tried for the book again, jumping this time.

"Tell you what, tell me why you want it and I'll get you the book," he smiled that delicate smile.

Defeatedly, I answered, "I rewriting an essay for my Psychology class. Happy?"

"So you're a Psyc major," he said, almost like he was a little surprised.

"Book," I held out my hand.

"One more thing." He grabbed the book, flipping through the pages, "Say please."

His smug smirk boiled my blood, and my brain kissed my skull, soft pecks hammering in consciousness. Hadn't he already got what he wanted? I was done having this conversation, "Just give me the goddamn book."

He grinned. Pleased with himself for annoying me. He offered the book. As I was about to take it, my nerves betrayed me. My hand shook violently, panic set in and I pulled away, tucking my right hand into the pocket of my coat. I took it with the other hand, avoiding his gaze. I knew he saw it, I couldn't help but feel his eyes burning through my scalp.

"So I make you nervous." He was referring to my shaking hand. A cheeky statement that made me look at him. Truthfully, I was grateful there wasn't an awkward silence. His lips curled into a lofty smirk. His eyes bored into my skin. Curiosity welling up inside him. I saw it. Clear as day, something behind eyes that held a secret softness, a purity. It ignited a desire for exploration, I wanted to uncover the secrets they held. His eyes were nothing like ours; I found myself wanting to stare into them for hours.

I was always fascinated with minds. I wanted to know why people thought the way they did. I smiled, "That, or it's the fact that we're in college and stress is inevitable."

He nodded at the book in my hand, "Sharon Salzberg," he said as he walked away leaving me standing in the aisle, my back to his. I looked down at the book to see the name he mentioned in bold letters, "You're in capable hands, Pancake."

At that, a grin stitched itself onto my lips but when I had noticed, I hid it. I didn't know his name but I marvelled at our interaction. I didn't melt with sweat from anxiety when I spoke to him nor did my heart clatter in my chest. Somehow, I was still. It was unnatural but I liked it. I could say whatever I wanted. Maybe, I didn't care anymore.

To be continued.