Page 10 of His to Teach

I stop at a nearby bookshelf, pretending to browse while listening to their conversation.

"Baldwin's critique of the American dream is so ahead of its time," Morris is saying, his voice carrying that annoying inflection of the perpetual graduate student—always slightly condescending even when trying to be helpful. "But you need to consider the historical context of racial dynamics in post-war America to fully appreciate the subversiveness."

"That makes sense," Flower responds. "Professor Davis mentioned something similar in his notes, but I wasn't sure how to incorporate it."

"Davis is brilliant, but he can be…rigid in his interpretations." Morris leans closer. "I'd be happy to walk you through some alternative critical frameworks sometime. Maybe over coffee?"

My hand tightens on the book I'm holding until the spine creaks in protest. The fucker is asking her out. Using Baldwin as a pretense to get my girl alone.

Flower hesitates. "That's nice of you, but I don't think⁠—"

"Just as colleagues," he assures her quickly. "I noticed your insights in class. You have a unique perspective that deserves development."

Liar. I know that look. Every male in academia has used it—the scholarly interest mask that barely conceals baser intentions. Hell, I've used it myself. But not with her. Never with her. With her, I made my intentions brutally clear from the start.

"I'm actually pretty busy with extra credit work," she says, nodding toward the pile of books.

"Davis is working you too hard," Morris says with a laugh that grates on my nerves. "All work and no play, you know? You deserve a break."

His hand moves to rest on her shoulder. Just briefly. Just a collegial touch. But it's enough.

I wait until Flower excuses herself to the restroom, then I make my move. Morris is still at the table, flipping through her notes—another violation of boundaries that feeds my rage.

"Morris." My voice is soft, deadly.

He startles, looking up. "Professor Davis. I was just helping one of your students with⁠—"

"I know exactly what you were doing." I sit across from him, leaning forward. "And it stops now."

His expression shifts from surprise to wariness. "I'm not sure what you're implying, but⁠—"

"Let me be perfectly clear." I keep my voice low, but there's no mistaking the threat underneath. "Miss Darling is off-limits to you. No coffee. No 'alternative frameworks.' No casual touches. Nothing."

"With all due respect, sir, I think that should be her decision." A hint of defiance creeps into his tone—the courage of the young and foolish.

I smile. It's not a pleasant expression; I can tell by the way he shrinks back slightly. "You're on track for a promising academic career, Morris. Would be a shame if your dissertation committee received concerns about your…ethical boundaries with undergraduates."

His face pales. "That's not—I wasn't⁠—"

"Touch her again, and I ruin you." I stand, straightening my jacket. "We understand each other?"

He nods, swallowing hard.

"Good." I gesture to Flower's books. "I'll be taking over this tutorial session. You can go."

He retreats like a dog with its tail between its legs. I watch him leave, satisfaction mingling with disgust—at him, but mostly at myself. I've become something I never intended to be: a jealous, possessive monster abusing my power to keep a girl barely half my age.

And I don't give a fuck.

I leave before Flower returns. I have preparations to make.

An hour later, she knocks on my office door.

"Come in," I call, not looking up from the papers I'm pretending to grade.

She enters hesitantly. "Professor Davis? You asked to see me?"

Now I look up, taking in her concerned expression. "Close the door, Miss Darling. Lock it."