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The clock ticked incessantly in the small room, the mahogany and crimson decoration of the office enough to unsettle and deepen your anxiety. The fountain pen scratched on the papers in front of you, as unforgiving as the man wielding it.
“That was unexpected, dear,” he broke the silence, but kept on with his writing; reading glasses hanging just on the edge of his nose, “thought you’d be able to handle it.”
Nibbling at your lower lip, you tried looking around as if the expensive-looking hard covered books would be able to offer you something — anything, really — to say; but alas, they stayed silent and so did you.
“Nothing to say for yourself?,” Dutch asked, seemingly disappointed, and you dared say even more than when you turned in a poorly written paper with barely any sources. “That’s a shame.”
“I—,” you protested, frustration getting the best of you, but quieted down as the man fixed you with a hard stare, eyes dark and brow quirked up at your outburst. “My apologies, Mr. Van der Linde. I suppose I… bit off more than I could chew.”
The man huffed a laugh, putting his fancy looking pen down. “Oh?,” he condescended, somewhat curious, perhaps amused — hell, maybe even both, you couldn’t tell. “And why’s that?”
To get to spend more time with you, Mr. Van der Linde.
“I think I underestimated the amount of work it required,” you lied, smiling pleasantly at him. “But if you’re willing to give me more time—“
“And why would I do that?,” he cut in, same pleasant smile as yours, only all the more menacing. “See, I’m not entirely against second chances, but fool me once shame on me, now fool me twice… you know how the saying goes.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” you spoke, wriggling your hands together on your lap, “but I’ll do better this time.”
Dutch watched you for a few seconds, now pulling his reading glasses off.
“I appreciate the effort and the eagerness,” the man said, half smile playing on lips as he reclined back on his chair, “but why exactly are you here?”
Caught off guard, you opened your mouth and closed it again, blinking at your advisor with disbelief. “Mr. Van der Linde—“
“Don’t take me the wrong way, dear,” Dutch spoke unhurriedly, sighing tiredly as he rubbed a hand on the dark circles under his eyes. You supposed teaching and tutoring took its tool. “But most students aren’t willing to go through all of that just for an extra grade, which accordingly to your GPA,” he slid a file to the other side of the desk, your name written on it, “you clearly don’t need.”
The man got up slowly, moving towards the open window; the crispy autumn air filtering in just enough to keep the room fresh. Dutch fished a cigarette from the pack laying at the windowsill, flicking it in his fingers rather anxiously. “Do you mind?,” and upon your silence, he lightened it up. “It’s not unusual for a smart girl such as yourself go extra lengths to secure a Honorable Mention in their graduation, I’ve seen that more than once myself,” the tip of the cig lit up slightly as he dragged it, holding the smoke for a while before letting it go. “The thing is, none were willing to work as much as you do, with your grades — which alone, should be able to get the Mention you must need, depending on your final project.”
Feeling your blood boil and your cheeks burn, you cut in rather exasperatedly, “what do you take me as, Mr. Van der Linde?”
Dutch turned to fix you with an amused look, mirth evident in his eyes as he tipped the cigarette outside the window. “I make no suppositions, my dear; I simply ask the right kind of questions,” he flicked the cig outside, not bothering to close the window — and when he rounded the table to get closer to you, there was the smell of tobacco around him. “But I must be honest with myself,” he sat on the desk beside your chair with an air or self pleasantness about him that made you want to kiss and punch him at the same time. “I like your spirit.”
Flushing, you gasped rather soundly and cast your eyes downwards. Had he caught on to you? Were you that obvious? You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, embarrassment taking the best of you as he stayed silent at your side; obviously watching.
“Does it… bother you, being close to me?,” he asked suddenly, but you knew there was no sense of shame or self-consciousness in his words, voice a sultry and low rumble in his chest.
“I— no, it… I don’t mind it, Mr. Van der Linde,” you offered meekly, gulping thickly. Where had your spirit gone to? You sure as hell needed it now.
“Please,” he spoke deliberately, “call me Daniel. Dutch if you please.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Dani— Dutch.” You cursed yourself silently at your behavior, fighting the urge to just get up and leave — it was funny, how you had pictured that conversation so many times; and you were never the one being teased unmercifully in any of them.
“I don’t normally do this, my dear,” the man pushed away from the desk and you could hear him walking around your chair, no rush, “but I suppose you’d like a second chance on your paper.”
An escape route.
“Yes, very much so!,” you spoke eagerly, turning around to look at Dutch, ready to impress once more. “I promise I’ll get it right this time, Mis— Dutch.”
“Oh, but I know you will,” he condescended, stepping closer slowly as his hand slowly took hold of your chin; thumb pressing softly just below your lip, “I’m sure you’ll do me proud this time.”