THE DRESS AND THE GLANCE
475 Words
One week later.
Aarohi stood in front of her tiny dorm mirror, turning left, then right.
The dress was new—deep emerald green, sleeveless, knee-length, cinched at the waist. Not too short, not too tight. Just... enough. It made her feel powerful. Dangerous. Like someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
She hadn't bought it for him.
At least, that's what she told herself.
Wednesday. 3:55 PM.
She walked to the faculty block, heels clicking softly on marble corridors. The building was quiet—most professors gone for the day. Only a few lights on.
His office door was ajar.
She knocked once.
"Come in."
Arjun looked up from a stack of papers. Shirt sleeves rolled higher today, tie missing entirely. Collar open. He looked less like a professor and more like a man who'd been waiting.
"Miss Sharma." His voice was even, but his eyes darkened as they took her in—the dress, the way it hugged her curves, the confidence in her posture.
"Professor." She stepped inside, closed the door behind her. The click sounded final.
He gestured to the chair opposite. "Sit."
She did. Crossed her legs. The hem rode up just a fraction. His gaze flicked down—once—then back to her face.
"You wanted to discuss honesty," he said.
"Yes." She leaned forward slightly. "In literature... and maybe outside it."
He set his pen down. Slowly.
"Careful, Aarohi. Some conversations can't be taken back."
She smiled. "I don't want to take it back."
Silence stretched. Thick. Electric.
He stood, walked around the desk, stopped beside her chair. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—woodsy, warm, intoxicating.
"Tell me," he said quietly, "what exactly do you want to learn?"
Her breath caught.
"Everything," she whispered. "How to want without apology. How to take what I need. How to make someone... lose control."
His hand rested on the back of her chair. Fingers brushed her shoulder—barely a touch. Fire raced down her spine.
"You're eighteen," he murmured. "Barely started."
"And already tired of waiting," she replied.
He exhaled. Sharp. Like he'd been holding it in for years.
His thumb traced the strap of her dress—slow, deliberate. Not crossing. Teasing the edge.
"You wear this today on purpose."
"Maybe."
He leaned down. Lips near her ear. Voice a low rumble.
"Then you should know... it's working."
Her thighs pressed together instinctively. Heat bloomed everywhere.
He straightened. Stepped back.
"Next Wednesday. Same time. Bring your notes... and your courage."
She stood on shaky legs.
"I'll bring more than that."
At the door she paused, looked back.
"Professor?"
"Yes?"
"Don't make me wait too long."
His smile was slow. Dangerous.
"I won't."
She left the office, heart pounding, skin alive.
The corridor felt too bright, too ordinary.
But inside her, something had shifted forever.
- Writer
