Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Challenge accepted.
His heart gave a strange little flutter.
And he pushed the doorknob open, and stepped inside.
In years, Professor Iseya’s office hadn’t changed a bit.
Still the same orderly, sparse designs, dark furniture chosen to naturally complement the building’s darkly weathered wood finish, minimal decorations save for small bits of terra-cotta pottery tucked here and there on shelves, tastefully spaced among rows and rows of neatly organized textbooks, reference books, literature on every aspect of psychology under the sun. Yet touches of green brightened the room, with delicate hanging basket planters suspended from the ceiling, overflowing with dangling, fragile tendrils of honeysuckle vines.
The honeysuckles were blooming now, even at this time of year—and their soft, alluring fragrance subtly wafted through the room, their curling petals and long stamens nearly dripping with it.
Summer remembered, once, coming to turn in an extra credit assignment he’d asked for to make up for missing a quiz after his mother had taken him out of school one day to spend the day in the woods with her, hunting bluebells and sunflowers and digging up medicinal herbs.
He’d caught Professor Iseya watering the honeysuckles, reaching up to spray them with a little bottle, handling them with those long, graceful fingers that touched them as if they would burst apart and scatter if he was the slightest bit too rough.
That moment, for young Summer, had been...
Magic.
And it brought a little of that magic back, to see that Iseya still kept his honeysuckles. That touch of softness, that sweetness, that hint into something more human than the cold façade he tried to project.
Even if, right now, Iseya might as well be made of stone, for all that he reacted to Summer’s entrance.
He sat behind a long, smooth desk made of polished cherrywood that gleamed almost burgundy in the low hanging overhead light, glossed so deeply that it almost perfectly mirrored his reflection—from the stark silver of his eyes to the sharp edges of his glasses, from the streaks of gray in his tightly-bound hair to the deep, steely color of today’s perfectly pressed button-down, a dark gray that only brought out the pale amber of his skin in a luminous glow.
The precision of his posture only accented the angular, broad strength of his shoulders, and the fact that at his height his chair was a little too small for him; any chair would be a little too small for him, Summer thought, when he was larger than life...
...and currently refusing to look up from the stack of student papers in front of him.
Summer tilted his head.
...I know you know I’m standing right here.
But Iseya only scratched off a quick-dashed mark in red ink.
And Summer smiled fondly, his heart squeezing in the best and worst ways.
“Good morning, Professor Iseya,” he said, stepping in and closing the door behind him.
Iseya still didn’t look up.
He just pointed his pen at the curving chair opposite his desk and bit off a terse, almost subvocal, “Sit.”
It was almost embarrassing, how quickly Summer scrambled to obey.
But then he always had had a weak spot for the natural sense of authority Iseya exuded, and it made Summer’s breaths catch just a little to let himself give in to the urge to do exactly as Iseya said.
He sank down in the chair, shifting a bit uncomfortably, trying to find the right way to sit before he just gave up and leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the edge of the desk.
He wanted to ask.
Nearly vibrated with it.
But instead he made himself say, “Grading pa—”
His voice cracked. Squeaked.
And Iseya’s gaze flicked up, sharp-edged blades of silver skewering Summer over the rims of his glasses.
Iseya said nothing.
Summer’s cheeks went hot, and he cleared his throat, dropping his eyes to stare down at the desk. His own reflection stared back up at him, just a little too wide-eyed and timid, and he didn’t think all of the red in his cheeks could be blamed on the cherrywood lacquer.
Right.
Try again.
“Grading papers?” he managed to ask in a rather stilted mumble, then closed his eyes, suppressing a groan.
Whatever confidence he’d had yesterday morning, standing by the lakeshore and watching how the sunlight dappled over Iseya’s hair and shoulders...
It had clearly deserted him today.
His bones felt like water, and the only reason he didn’t turn and bolt was because he didn’t really think his body would hold him up if he tried to stand.
“If you have the slightest recollection of my classes at all,” Iseya said crisply, his deep, rolling voice edged in glacial frost, “you’ll recall I have no patience for obvious questions.”
“Don’t,” Summer said. It came out faint, soft, but he made himself say it. That was something he’d been trying to learn to do since he’d escaped Omen: make himself say the things that needed to be said, even if his voice was small when he said them. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your misbehaving students. Please. I’m supposed to be your peer, even if I have a lot to learn from you before I’m ready to teach.”