Emma Swan scooted into the lecture hall ten minutes late. She grasped the handle to the door and slowly creaked it shut, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

"Ahem," a voice echoed and tumbled through the hall and over the desks and slapped the blonde right in the face. "Nice of you to join us today. I hope my class didn't interrupt anything important. Maybe you could meet me after class and we could reschedule. What time would suit you?"

Shit. There must have been a hundred people in this hall and this professor decided to single out her. Her first day was starting out well. Emma turned from the door, planning to say something biting and witty to the teacher who called her out, but she stopped dead as soon as she saw her. Dark layered hair fell around a perfect face. Emma's eyes traveled down the flawless curved form and she could feel her mouth go dry.

"How 'bout I pick you up at eight?" was the first thing her dumb brain decided to spit out. She cringed. Shit. Smooth Swan. Now you're late and a perv. Way to make a first impression. A few students chuckled nervously, but the laughs abruptly died when the professor's hard glare didn't let up.

From all the way at the top of the steps, Emma could see the woman's full lips compress into a thin, hard line. "In case you haven't noticed or your primitive brain simply can't comprehend, this is an art history class you've stumbled into, not a high school dance. We study fine specimens of art, not of ass. And I suggest you put yours into a seat before I kick it out."

Damn, this bitch is cold, Emma thought. But still, there was something about those acidic words spoken in that husky tone that drew her in. She'd have to remember not to be such an idiot next time.

Emma plopped herself down in the back row and took out her notebook and textbook. By the time she had gotten herself situated, Miss…what was it? She checked her schedule. Miss Mills was already rambling on about prehistoric cave paintings in France in coalition with the Six Principles of Painting and if they could even be considered art at all.

Emma didn't know if that lumpy donkey was art, but she sure as hell knew she was looking at a masterpiece. She watched her professor's hips move as she walked toward the projection screen and studied the way her back curved into her ass and the way her chic dress hung around her waist. This is art. Art in motion. She could study this.

Before she knew it, slightly terrified and overwhelmingly relieved students were stumbling over each other to reach the door as fast as they could. I guess the class is over then. Emma started packing her things into her backpack, shoving her blank notebook into whatever pocket it could fit in.

Another ahem caught her attention. Ms. Mills was motioning for Emma to come down. "You," she pointed vaguely in her direction. "Come down here. I'd like to speak with you about your behavior."

And just like that her heart exploded. Well, maybe not exploded, but she was surely having some form of palpitations. Emma had been in fight or flight situations before, but she thought this was this first time her stress hormones went crazy all for something as meaningless as a bitchy teacher (though, admittedly a very attractive one.)

She thought about running, she was close to the door, but she decided she'd suck it up. How bad could one teacher be anyway?

…

Apparently very bad. Emma had never felt so close to peeing her pants as she did right then. Well, except for that one time she was caught by the police. And when she was three and her foster dad wouldn't take her to the bathroom. But the main thing to take away from these sentences is that she was very scared. So scared that she equates it to being three without a bathroom nearby. That's hella scared.

She played the memory back in her head as she flopped face down on her bed, reliving the worst-best first day of her life.

…

Emma trudged down the steps until she was three feet away from the professor. She crossed her arms nervously.

"What is it?" she muttered without looking the deliciously perfect professor in the eye.

Miss Regina Mills stepped closer to her, forcing Emma to look up. Her jaw was set in a way that was both positively terrifying and arousing simultaneously. Emma's palpitations were back.

"I don't appreciate being cat-called in my own class. And I won't stand for it again. One more mistake like that and I swear, I will kick you out of my class and fail you for the semester."

"I'm sorry, my brain was obviously not working…you know, first day and stuff…I won't do it again," the usually hard girl was stumbling over her own words in an attempt to take back the respect she obviously wouldn't have been given in the first place.

"I could see that. Were you paying attention during my lecture?" Regina Mills stuck her jaw out more.

"Yes…" It wasn't truly a lie.

She put her hands on her hips. "Who was Pliny the Elder, what did he criticize, and what passages did he write that were influential from the Renaissance onwards."

" Um…an very renown art history dude, art stuff, and…a book…natural something."

Regina was appalled. "This information will be on the final! Are you really openly declaring to your professor that you didn't listen at all? Did you even learn anything?"

"Not to be a smartass…" Emma leaned back against the oak desk uncomfortably.

"I do not tolerate ungrateful students," she was moving closer. Emma could almost feel her breath. "I do not tolerate half-assed work," Emma started shifting back, closer to the desk. "And I do NOT tolerate being talked back to."

An enormous crash and the sound of breaking clay made both of the women jolt back. Sharp, splintering blue and white pieces of a beautiful (or at least it was) vase were scattered around the front of the desk.

It took Regina a moment, but when she came to, she came to. "My vase!" she shrieked. Her muscles twitched and her hands clenched. Slowly, she turned toward Emma, and she was seething. (This is the part where she almost pees her pants.) All of the sudden, it got up close and personal. Regina, clenched fists, locked jaw, twitching eye and all, was in Emma's face faster than you could say 'sorry.'

"THAT VASE WAS A GIFT FROM MY FATHER," she screamed, her hot breath piercing Emma's neck. "IT COST HIM TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS," her voice lowered to a whisper dripping with rage. "Do you have any idea what you've done."

Emma put her hands up, partly as a sign of her apology, and partly to protect herself, because she thought Miss Mills might start throwing punches. "I'm sorry," she tried to slink away. "I'm so sorry. I'll clean it up, I'll do anything. It was an accident."

Regina had calmed down a bit, though her breathing was still heavy and she crossed her arms tensely. "Pay it back."

"What?!"

"Unless you want me to contact your insurance agency or sue you for destruction of property, you will pay for this vase."

Emma stumbled back. "But I can't afford that!"

Miss Mills looked confused. "Really?"

"I'm a college student! How much freaking money do you think I have?!"

"Oh," she looked aside, "I see. Then we'll just have to find some other way for you to pay off your debt."

"I'll-I'll clean your car, I'll walk you dogs…I'll be your secretary! Anything!"

Regina Mills looked slightly intrigued. "You know, now that you say that, I do find I don't have quite enough time to grade papers as I'd like…"

Emma pointed and jumped up. "There! That's it! I'll be your assistant!"

"I suppose I could use some extra help…Alright. You'll meet me in my office every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 5 until 9 to help me grade papers and construct new lesson plans." Emma felt her face heat up. "Nothing more," Regina added as if reading her mind.

"How long…um, I mean, how long will I have to be your assistant?"

The professor smiled and chuckled darkly to herself, as if she knew some secret that only she found funny. She stepped away from the girl and started shuffling through some papers on her desk nonchalantly. Finally she looked up, still with that alluring smile on her perfect face. "Well, considering I make about 60,000 dollars a year, and you would only be doing a third of the work I do," her smile got wider. Emma thought she might actually be enjoying taking advantage of her. Scratch that. Emma knew. "You would have to be my assistant for exactly one year."

Emma's mouth fell open. "A year?!"

"Yes, dear. Twelve months. I would've thought that you at least knew basic math. This is a prestigious university. They don't accept just anyone," she smiled to herself again. Yeah, she was definitely enjoying this.

"I know basic math. I was just repeating for clarification," she retorted, crossing her arms defiantly.

"Mmmmhmmm. Of course."

"Hey, if you don't want me to be your assistant, I don't have to be. I can leave."

"If you don't want to be sued, go right ahead. I'm not stopping you," she mumbled, still ruffling her papers around.

"Fine."

Regina looked up to see the blonde holding her hand out. She had reaaalllly long fingers.

The hand jutted out at her again, demanding more attention. "Hey, are we gonna shake on it or what?"

Regina cleared her throat. "I didn't know we would need to resort to such childish measures. What's next, are you going to ask me to sign a blood oath?" she feigned shock, "A pinky swear?" Nice save, Regina.

Luckily Emma didn't notice. She rolled her eyes. "Just shake the damn hand."

"Fine." Regina composed herself before walking over to the girl. She took the fingers lightly and shook them once. They were surprisingly warm.

"Great," Emma stated. "I guess I'll see you tonight, then, boss." She stressed the term of superiority. She could already tell it got on her professor's nerves.

"Don't be late, underling." Regina was not one to play games.

And with that Emma jogged up the stairs and made to leave. At the door she turned and gave a quick nod. She found it surprising that her teacher was still watching her. Maybe today was a good day to wear these jeans.

…

At 4:30 the alarm on her phone rang. Emma took a deep breath. You better not fuck it up this time, Swan.