"Professor, I know you already told us to not disturb you but could you look through this paper for me," There was only one student who could say this sentence and get away with it. Rosie Chamberlain, the headmaster daughter who is continuing her PhD studies.

Professor Yilmaz nodded as he continues to flip said red pen back and forth between his long fingers as he waits to find a mistake to point out, but I was sure even if he found one, he would either dismiss it or not even see it since the headmaster probably looked at her paper before she would hand it.

"This looks good," The Professor says.

As expected. I thought.

"Thank you," She replied before she could leave, he spoke, "but it would help if you wrote it all on your own next time and I will grade it accordingly,"

"I di-" He cuts her off. "We can discuss this later," He said. "In your mother's chamber, I presume,"

She looked furious as she was about to exit his office. That is why Professor Yilmaz is considered different because he wouldn't give a grade for someone based on her looks or her relatives unlike most Professor here who want to keep their job by kissing up to the headmaster and what helped Rosie was the fact that she inherited her mother's long flowing blonde locks and blue eyes that would seduce any professor into giving her extra time and to go easier on her with grading, but most people believe that Professor Yilmaz isn't even interested in girls that is why he would never fall for it.

When the door slams meaning that Rosie has left the room, I'm so on edge that I flinch in the chair. I inhale deeply and hold it for a second, willing my galloping heart to slow down.

He leant his forearms on the table, and I couldn't take my eyes off the long, lean lines, the way the muscles of his forearm ripple and flex with the motion of his fingers.

I let out the breath slowly and open my eyes, feeling calmer. Rare confidence comes over me, and I meet his eyes, willing myself to hold his stare.

Professor Yilmaz drops the pen on top of the stack of papers and leans back in his chair, legs spread wide, hands resting on his long thighs. The way his black pants cling to the hard muscle is sinful, and I avert my eyes before they can travel higher. The silence stretches out between us as he tilts his head at me, studying me, considering his words.

"Miss Muhmmad, I'm sure you know why I asked you to meet me in my office."

"I..." I'm so nervous my throat is dry, and it comes out a whisper. I clear my throat before speaking up. "I think so, Professor."

He looks at me intensely, and I try not to blanch under his stare. The intense green of his eyes is disarming; he has no idea of the effect he has on people.

"I'd like you to tell me," he says, rising from the chair and walking slowly to the side of the table. His proximity is making me more nervous by the second. I can smell his cologne, a spicy, woodsy scent that intoxicates me.

"I think... my paper..."

"This paper?" He asks, the red pen clattering to the floor as he lifts my paper from the top. I nod, and he takes a step closer. "What about this paper?"

I try to search for words to say, and I couldn't come up with a better excuse. "It's not my best work, Professor. I've been having a difficult time lately, Sir."

I will not cry. I will not cry in front of Professor Ibrahim Yilmaz. I kept repeating

He takes one more step, and I sit up straighter in my chair, trying to create some distance between us. He's too close now. There are mere inches between us.

I hear the ripping of paper, and I look up, gasping when I see him tearing my paper in half and then half again, and then again. He drops it back on the desk. His face reveals nothing. He could be seconds away from exploding, and I have nowhere to take cover.

"This is bullshit, Wahaj," he says, his voice a low rumble. He never addresses students by their first name. Though he has a good Pokerface, something softens in his eyes as he watches me.

"What happened?" He looks at my hand with my wedding ring still placed on my hand and sighs before taking a step back and sitting down in his chair again. My galloping heart slows to a mere canter as I realize that maybe he's not going to explode after all.

"Sir, I've been having some personal problems lately. It's been a lot to deal with. As you know, this is not the norm for me."

It's true. He knows this. I've been able to juggle being married with my college work for the last course, but the cracks are starting to show.

Professor Yilmaz is a rare breed, and he rarely dishes out praise to any of his students. Still, with every paper I've submitted, it's always been returned with a positive note at the top of the page along with my grade. This small form of acknowledgement gives me some indication that he knows how hard I work for this class.

Knowing this doesn't put my mind at ease. I knew when I handed it in that it wasn't my best work.

Despite my fear, his face changes before my eyes. It goes from curious, to sceptical, to sympathetic in the space of about five seconds. His lips purse and he runs his fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Wahaj, but you're a Medical student. You need to set personal things aside when you step into my lecture room," he says, rising from his chair.

How could I separate it when it is all I think of 24/7. I was in debt over my head, and my aunt will lose her cafe while I have to juggle the consciousness of being married. I thought.

"This is a poor excuse for a paper, Wahaj. Have you studied for your exam next Friday? Because you need to work a lot harder than this," he says, his voice rising with each syllable. He's getting agitated again, tugging at his unruly bronze hair.

"What the hell happened, Wahaj?" He barks when I don't respond. His fury is barely contained.

"I... I can't... I'm sorry," The last two words come out a whisper, my voice breaking as a flood of emotion washes over me again. I bite my lip, but I couldn't stop the tears from appearing.

My quiet sobs and his heavy breathing are the only sounds in the room for one long, awkward moment, before he's crouching down on his knees beside me. He reaches up and touches my shoulder, squeezing quickly before I move as he pulls away and stands, fists balled at his sides. "I apologize, Wahaj. That was inappropriate."

He watches me carefully, his gaze darting between my eyes and the tears running down my face. I was clueless about how to reply to his words, so I say nothing.

"Please don't cry." He looks uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Professor," I say, still wondering what the hell is going on.

"Don't. I should apologize. I didn't mean to make you cry. Obviously, your personal problems are none of my business."

He clears his throat, meets my eyes again. "I want to give you the chance to resubmit the paper."

"Why?"

"You'll have one week. I'll expect a completely different paper this time. Email me if there's anything you need," he says as he moves back towards his chair, lifting his jacket that hangs on the back. He pulls it on, fidgets with his collar; he seems flustered. He picks up his messenger bag, walking toward the door as if I'm not there. He opens the door and clears his throat. The conversation is over.

He doesn't look at me as I walk toward the door. I've been dismissed like nothing happened. As I pass him, his hand on my forearm stops me. My arm burns with his tight grip, my heart stuttering with the effect of his touch.

"Do not tell anyone about this, Miss Muhammad. No one else gets the second chance you're getting," he whispers. It feels like a threat.

"Why? Why are you giving me a second chance?"

"Because I can."