EXTRA CREDIT

EXTRA CREDIT 0.2

(ALINA'S POV)

I stand outside Professor Hayes's office, staring at the door like it's personally offended me. Except it didn't — it's the stupid man inside the office who did.

Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I contemplate knocking or just going back to my dorm, stopping by the admin office on the way and dropping Economics altogether.

You can't do that. If you do, everything you've worked for goes down the drain.

The voice in my head makes me sigh. I can't drop this subject. I can't give up, which means I'll have to apologize nicely to my arrogant dickhead of a professor.

Fisting my hand, I raise it to knock — when the door opens on its own, revealing Ms. Harrison, a literature professor at the university.

She doesn't notice me at first.

"I'll see you later," she says to someone I can only assume is Mr. Hayes, and gets a deep hum in return.

I take a step back as her head turns and she meets my eyes. I wave awkwardly and she pauses, one hand on her skirt trying to drag it down. The top few buttons of her button-up shirt are undone, revealing her skin littered with hickeys, and I let out a silent gasp.

A deep blush spreads across Ms. Harrison's face as she hurriedly walks past, leaving me standing there like a statue.

"Come in, Carter."

His stupid deep voice breaks my trance and I glare at him before taking a small step into hell.

"Shut the door."

I mock his words under my breath as I close the door.

"You know what you did wrong," he says, and I look up at him. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to reveal his toned, muscular arms. Drops of sweat trail down his neck and into his shirt, the top buttons undone, his dark, silky hair all messed up by whatever activity he and Ms. Harrison were doing in here.

He's sooo hot.

My subconscious says. I almost nod in agreement before snapping out of my trance myself.

"I did nothing wrong, Professor," I say, instinctively playing with my fingers.

He raises an eyebrow slowly.

“Oh?” he says, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. “Throwing objects during my lecture is now acceptable behavior, Carter?”

“It was a pen,” I mutter.

“A pen,” he repeats flatly.

My fingers twist together nervously as I stare at the floor. My breath falters in the silence, and I can't help but flick my eyes up quickly to stare at him.

Even when he's mad he's hot.

“You embarrassed me,” he continues, his voice calm but sharp enough to make my shoulders tense. “In front of the entire class.”

I scoff before I can stop myself. “You embarrassed me first.”

His eyes narrow.

“How exactly did I do that, Carter?”

“By shutting me down like I didn’t know what I was talking about, by constantly picking on me each class,” I fire back. “Just because I’m a student doesn’t mean I’m automatically wrong.”

For a moment he just watches me.

Not angry.

Eventually, the corner of his thin lips lifts slightly, revealing the ghost of a smile.

“You’re not wrong,” he says finally.

That catches me off guard.

“But,” he continues, leaning forward and resting his arms on the desk, “there’s a difference between debating a point and disrupting my classroom, which in turn disrespects me.”

I open my mouth to argue again, but nothing comes out.

Because he’s technically right.

And I hate that.

His eyes flick down to my hands, still fidgeting.

“Are you nervous, Carter?”

“No.”

“You’re twisting your fingers.”

I immediately stop, dropping my hands to my sides.

“I’m not nervous,” I repeat.

A small smirk appears on his face.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you’re going to challenge me in my class, you’d better learn how to do it properly.”

I blink.

“What?”

“You clearly have opinions,” he says calmly. “Strong ones.”

My confusion grows.

“And since you’re so passionate about economics,” he continues, “you can prove it.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously.

“What does that mean?”

He slides a folder across the desk toward me.

“It means,” he says, “you just volunteered for extra credit.”

My stomach drops.