A/N: Originally posted on AO3.
Eyes fixed on the entryway to the lecture hall, Michaela takes a deep inhalation, squaring her shoulders and exhaling before walking into the room. This is the day she's been anticipating and dreading—as evident by her night's fitful rest, slumber plagued by dreams of various clichéd, but no less mortifying, scenarios: giving an incorrect answer to an otherwise simple question, arriving late to class sans any clothing, and becoming the laughingstock of her year.
Eventually she'd given up on sleep, abandoning her bed a full two hours prior to the blare of her alarm. She took up residence at her desk, poring over the assignment Professor Keating had sent to them days earlier, just as she'd done countless times upon receiving the e-mail. The only comfort she took was in the familiarity of the words, and from that she deemed herself ready to face the woman she'd long ago made her role model.
Now as she descends the stairs to the head of the classroom, her nerves and feelings of inadequacy return. She attempts to keep them at bay and steadies her steps, forcing her body to exude the confidence she otherwise lacks. Her eyes sweep the area around her, taking note of the people that'll be her competition for the next three years. Most of them look competent, dressed in business attire as they try to one up each other and brag about their summer internships and familial connections. For the moment, she ignores that, refusing to let it affect her.
The trek to the desk where the seating chart is located is a short one, Michaela pushing past the few of her classmates that linger at the table. Searching for her name, she's pleased to find that she's in the front row—exactly where she wants to be: close enough to easily observe her professor and learn her ways. It's unlikely, but she also imagines that Professor Keating saw promise in her, by virtue of her name alone, and rewarded her with a seat upfront.
A smile tugs at her lips as she takes her place and unpacks the necessary items. There's time before the lecture begins, so Michaela, once again, reviews her notes, refusing to be caught, in any way, unprepared. The task also serves to distract her from the others in the room, their murmurs and whispers of the "ball buster" that is Annalise Keating culminating with her other worries to play on her anxiety. Fiddling with her highlighter, a habit she's carried throughout her entire academic career, Michaela leans over her desk, doing her best to shut out the noise.
Her endeavor works well for a time, her morale resurfacing with her knowledge of the text, but soon her attention is drawn elsewhere. A shadow casts over her, briefly, and then the seat beside her becomes occupied. From the corner of her eye she sees a head turn in her direction before looking away. She almost breathes a sigh of relief that the man will leave her to her reading, but that's short lived when his voice breaks the bubble of solitude around her.
"Here we go. I'm not usually a first row kind of guy—"
Michaela's sigh turns to one of frustration as she lifts her head. Her first instinct is to cut the man's chatter short by flashing her engagement ring then pointing him in the direction of the seating chart, but she hesitates upon seeing his face. His kind smile and the warmth in his brown eyes stop her. The hand she had begun to raise lowers, and her lips turn upward to match his.
"I always sit in the front row. Hiding, at least in class, isn't really my thing." She finds herself relaxing back in her chair, welcoming his conversation. It must be the wholesome, boy next door aura about him, she thinks taking in his plaid shirt and long limbs.
"Really? I wish I was instinctively like that. I'm Wes, by the way." He extends his hand and Michaela takes it, appreciating the firmness of his handshake.
Her head dips, her smile turning up a notch before responding in kind, "Michaela."
I'm not flirting with him, she assures herself, right hand tingling from his touch as the weight of her engagement ring bears down on the left. She tells herself that she's making a friend—no, an ally—to provide assistance in the grueling years ahead. Plus he isn't even my type, her thoughts end, and the rationalizations work to quiet yet another unease to have risen in her day.
She watches intently as his lips begin to move, but an interruption halts his words.
"Hey, buddy, this is my seat." Their intruder seems impatient, shifting from one foot to the other, as he waits for his spot to be vacated.
Michaela sees the confusion on Wes' face, and winces sheepishly. "Sorry. I meant to tell you that seats are assigned." Her face is apologetic, hand, momentarily, touching his shoulder.
"It's all right," Wes says, nodding his head then gathering his things. "I'll see you around, Michaela." His parting glance brings the smile back to her face, and she shakes her head in agreement.
Returning her gaze to the book in front of her, she refuses to allow herself to watch his departure, for fear of what her mind might conjure up. Her previous anxiety about the course has lessened, interchanged with other emotions she doesn't wish to examine, but all that is forgotten when Annalise Keating makes her entrance, commanding the entire lecture hall's undivided attention.
Startled into remembrance of why she applied to Middleton Law, Michaela chastises herself, upset that she depleted her time talking to a boy instead of rereading the class materials. Vowing to rebuff future distractions, she clears her thoughts of everything unrelated to her ambitions.