Coming To NYU

Alex's POV::

As I make my way through the bustling campus, thoughts of giving up plague my mind. The overwhelming desire to simply collapse on the sidewalk and regress to a tantrum-throwing five year old consumes me. But then, in the midst of my turmoil, I spot the elusive building I have been searching for all morning.

In my haste to arrive early for my first college class, I had overlooked it just ten minutes ago. But now, as I relinquish my hopes of punctuality, I am able to navigate the school map with a newfound clarity and composure. And there it stands before me.

The creative writing department building, four stories tall and unassuming, with its stark white and black facade. A path that many great writers have traveled, and one that I aspire to tread myself.

I glance down at my phone to check the time, and in a desperate attempt to make it to class on time, I practically sprint towards the entrance. I am incredibly late.

This is the moment I have been anxiously awaiting - my first encounter with the renowned Zane Orion. A figure of literary mastery, and my class supervisor. Although I am more than familiar with his work, today marks our first official introduction. And unfortunately, I have already managed to make a terrible first impression.

In my hastened state, I stub my toe on the elevated platform and stifle a silent cry of pain. Could this day possibly get any worse?

I remember the first time I read Zane Orion's nonfiction book on the romanticism of poetry, at the tender age of fifteen. It was a pivotal moment that ignited my passion for writing.

His exquisite use of language, his subtle hints of humor even in the most serious of subjects, and his sheer brilliance in captivating a room full of high school students with the beauty of poetry - albeit briefly for most, but not for me. I was captivated, entranced by the words of a stranger from across the country. A stranger who seemed out of reach, beyond my reach of imagination.

Zane Orion is just as popular for his looks as his work. He is hot as hell and most of his personal life is shrouded in mystery, so no one really knows him outside of what he chooses to show, which is very little. This fuels his legend, and I am helpless when it comes to hot middle-aged men with an appreciation for privacy.

I wouldn't deny that my teenage, overactive imaginative mind hadn't conjured incriminating erotic scenarios involving him over the years, neither would I admit it to my befuddled mother as the reason why I chose NYU instead of Emerson College back home in Boston, like she wanted.

I saw online that Zane accepted a teaching role in the creative writing department, and that was all I needed to know before choosing NYU when applying for college.

I take a deep breath as I read the guide map pasted on the front desk that shows where each level has its classes.

The different lecture halls and offices. First years get the ground floor, and as you go higher, you get the top floors. Since I'm a freshman, the multipurpose lecture hall down the hallway on my left is where I am supposed to be headed. Where Zane Orion is.

I reach the solid oak door too quickly. I dab at the sweat on my forehead, trying in vain to part my wet bangs into something presentable. I pat my face, pull at my cheekbones, and tap my cheeks lightly. I don't know why, but I suddenly am overwhelmed with the need to look my best. It is a futile battle.

My short stint around campus has rattled me. I straighten my black shirt over my blue baggy jeans, regretting my choice of clothing. Not only am I late, but I am also going to look insane. Maybe I should just head back to my dorm. My hurting toe is a sign that the day is cursed.

I bite down that impulse with all my willpower and take a deep breath instead.

Hopefully, it would be a big packed class, and I can just slip in unnoticed. With my heart in my throat, a quick prayer on my lips, I push the door open.

The door opens with a loud creak that makes my stomach drop to the floor.

Every single head in the class turns around to look at me, the intruder, and I stand there, dumbfounded. All my confidence slips out of me in a cold sweat.

And there, at the podium, is Zane Orion. I promptly forget that the whole class is staring at me; I see only him for a second, and the dark intensity behind his mesmerizing hazel eyes takes my breath away. He is even more stunning in reality. Christ. Those lashes. I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry.

Zane Orion has slightly Arabic features that are prominent in his midnight-black hair, his straight nose, and his full, smooth lips. It further fuels the mystery that shrouds his personality.

His jaw is so square, it looks like he was carved by a master sculptor, and his hazel eyes with their striking gold, green, and brown colors have a piercing quality to them that I think he highlights by dressing in all black almost every time. I don't think there is a picture of him online where he is dressed in color.

The man is dark and mysterious, like midnight, and it only pulls people to him. Pulls me to him. I will let that man ruin my life and thank him for it.

God, where did that hellish thought come from?

"Oh, the ultimate latecomer," Zane looks down at his watch with an annoyed look passing over his features, it doesn't hit me that he is addressing me, so I just stand there, completely enthralled by this burning furnace of a man, "Would you find a seat and join us if you are part of this class, so you can stop disrupting my class, Miss?" His deep baritone resonates across the huge hall, slashing into me with all the annoyance in his tone.

Fuck.