EXTRA CREDIT 0.9
1179 Words
ALINA’S POV
I should not be here.
That is the only coherent thought my brain has managed since I stepped into his office.
Professor Hayes sits behind his desk like he was built for it—too calm, too collected, too irritatingly aware of everything happening in the room.
Including me spiraling internally.
“Sei già pronta a scappare, piccola volpe,” he says without looking up.
I freeze.
“…What?”
A pause.
His eyes lift slowly.
That look again.
Like he’s already decided I’m lying.
“Sit properly, Alina,” he says instead, switching back to English like nothing happened.
I hate that tone.
The one that sounds like he’s not even arguing with me—he’s just observing a very obvious fact I’m refusing to accept.
I straighten my back harder than necessary.
“There,” I mutter.
“Va bene,” he hums.
That should not feel like praise.
It does anyway.
I immediately hate it.
He leans back slightly, flipping a page in my file.
“You’re developing a habit,” he says casually.
“Oh yeah?” I snap. “What, existing?”
His mouth twitches.
Not quite a smile.
Not quite not one either.
“Dramatic responses to minor corrections,” he says.
I stare at him.
“That wasn’t minor.”
“It was,” he replies immediately.
The speed annoys me more than it should.
I fold my arms. “So this is what this is? You called me here to insult my personality?”
He finally looks at me properly.
And there it is.
That irritating calm focus.
“No,” he says. “I called you here because I watched a video of you threatening someone with a weapon in a crowded club.”
Silence drops.
Just like that.
The teasing edge is still there—but thinner now.
Sharpened underneath it.
I look away first.
Of course I do.
“You’re overreacting,” I mutter.
That earns me a quiet exhale through his nose.
Almost a laugh.
Almost not.
“Overreacting,” he repeats slowly. “Interesting choice of word.”
I shrug, suddenly too aware of my hands.
“It wasn’t that serious.”
That does it.
The air changes.
Not loud anger.
Worse.
Controlled disappointment.
“You are sitting in my office,” he says, voice lower now, “because multiple people recorded you holding a blade at someone’s throat.”
I open my mouth—
Nothing comes out.
He continues.
“And your argument is that it wasn’t serious.”
I swallow.
“…It wasn’t meant to hurt anyone.”
That lands differently.
Something flickers in his expression.
He leans forward slightly now.
“Intent doesn’t cancel impact,” he says.
I hate that he’s right.
So I do what I always do.
Deflect.
“You sound very passionate about this for someone who wasn’t even there.”
That earns it.
A real pause.
Then Adrian leans back again.
Slowly.
And now there’s something almost amused in his face again.
“Oh, I was there,” he says.
My stomach drops slightly.
“…What?”
His gaze doesn’t move.
“I was at the club.”
Silence.
I blink.
“…You were stalking me.”
“I was not stalking you,” he says immediately.
A beat.
Then, calmer:
“I was preventing a situation from becoming a police report.”
I stare at him.
“That sounds like stalking with better branding.”
That actually gets a faint smirk.
Finally.
“There it is,” he says. “The attitude I was warned about.”
I narrow my eyes. “Warned by who?”
He ignores that.
Of course he does.
Instead, he taps my file once.
“You always escalate like that?” he asks.
“I don’t escalate,” I say quickly. “I resolve problems efficiently.”
“By threatening people with weapons?”
“It was a visual argument.”
He looks at me.
Deadpan.
“…A visual argument.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then—
“You’re exhausting,” he says.
I blink.
“…Excuse me?”
But he’s already leaning back again, like he didn’t just say that.
Like I imagined it.
But I didn’t.
“I am not in the habit of repeating myself,” he adds calmly.
I glare at him.
“And I’m not in the habit of being judged by people who show up at clubs I didn’t invite them to.”
That finally lands something real.
His eyes sharpen slightly.
“You didn’t notice me until it was already too late,” he says.
My mouth opens.
Closes.
Because he’s right again.
I hate this conversation.
He exhales once.
Then the teasing tone returns—but lighter.
“You’re very bad at situational awareness,” he adds.
I sit forward. “You’re very bad at minding your business.”
“That is not a recognized skill set,” he replies.
I scoff.
“You’re enjoying this.”
That makes him pause.
Just a second.
Then:
“No,” he says.
But he says it like someone lying badly.
I catch it.
He catches that I caught it.
We both go still for half a second.
Then he stands.
Slowly.
Walks around the desk—not toward me exactly, just closer.
And suddenly the space feels smaller.
“You’re not expelled,” he says.
I blink.
“…That’s it?”
“That’s it for now,” he corrects.
Of course.
Of course there’s a ‘for now.’
He stops near the edge of the desk.
Looks down at me.
“You’re reckless,” he says.
I open my mouth.
He continues before I can argue.
“And you think sarcasm counts as damage control.”
My jaw tightens.
“…It works most of the time.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he replies.
Then, quieter:
“Eppure, non funzionerà sempre.”
Silence stretches.
Longer now.
Less playful.
Still not soft.
Just… real.
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I stand abruptly.
Chair scraping.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
He doesn’t stop me.
Doesn’t move.
Just watches.
Like he already knew I would do that.
At the door, I pause.
I hate that I pause.
“…Am I in actual trouble?” I ask without turning around.
A beat.
Then his voice, calmer again:
“You’re always in trouble, Alina.”
I turn slightly.
He adds, almost casually:
“La domanda è quanto io scelga di farci qualcosa.”
That should scare me.
It doesn’t.
It annoys me.
I leave before I can think about why.
Behind me, I hear him exhale once.
Like I just made his day harder.
Or more interesting.
Probably both.
As I leave his office I lean against the nearest wall and sigh
I should really learn more Italian
★★★★★★★★★
(Va Bene:That’s fine / good.)
(Eppure, non funzionerà sempre: And yet, it won’t always work.)
(La domanda è quanto io scelga di farci qualcosa: The question is how much I choose to do about it.)
- Writer
