The eyes in the mirror stared back at you, judging your every movement. You brushed your teeth over the sink, rinsing and spitting, ensuring that your breath would not be an issue. You glanced at your outfit. It was wrinkled from a day of wear but if you changed, he might notice and that would be weird. Wouldn't it? Should you reapply mascara or lip gloss? Why were you like this?

He was just your professor. He didn't care about you other than professionally. And it shouldn't matter that he was tall, built, and a god damned superhero. Those were all good reasons to keep any thoughts unrelated to school hidden deep, so deep down. The thought of him seeing you as anything other than a student was laughable. You were only maintaining your appearance so he would know you were taking your education seriously. Maybe a little lip gloss wouldn't hurt.

"Where are you going?" Heather walked into the room. She threw her purse down and sprawled on her bed, stretching out as if she was about to make a snow angel in her comforter.

"Library. Like I always do," you lied. You didn't want people knowing Professor Rogers was giving you extra help. Not only was it embarrassing, but he would get hounded for special treatment from people who would try to use him for his fame.

"You put on lip gloss for the library now?" A slow smirk played across her face.

"Tell Mr. Library "hi" from me." She reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a small object. Standing, she crossed the room and slipped it into your messenger bag. "Just in case," she said with a wink.

Taking your bag from her grip, you threw it over your shoulder. "I'm just studying."

"All work and no play will make you a dull girl. You need to have some fun. College is supposed to be an experience."

"College is supposed to get me away from parents. I can't afford to have fun right now. I need to save my money so when I do graduate, I never have to rely on them again."

"Well, I guess you'll have to live vicariously through me then." She leaned past you, fixing the smudges of liner under eyes.

"If by vicariously, you mean holding your hair while you vomit, then yes…I guess I'll have to live vicariously through you." You laughed at the mock offense that played across her face.

"That was one time. If you had come with me, maybe I wouldn't have had so much to drink."

"Mmhmm. When have I ever been able to stop you from doing anything?" You turned the handle and walked through the door.

Heather flopped back down on her mattress. "True. You are a pushover."

You peeked your head back in the room. "And you're a slutty lush."

"Betch!" She laughed as she threw her pillow at the door. "Go hit it with Mr. Library so I can upgrade you to slut too, nerd."

Nerd. Following the hallway to the exit, you knew it was true. Academics was your only focus right now. You assumed a social life would follow once you had established yourself later in life. What if you were wrong? What if you really were missing out? Should you try to be more like Heather? She seemed happy with her partner. Shaking your head, you pushed those doubts away.

The campus was beautiful during the day. Lots of common areas covered in trees and grass between the buildings for the sun to shine down on. It was lowering in the sky, just settled over the buildings casting shadows along your path. As much as you loved greens and bright blues of the day, you preferred the navy and greys of the evenings, when the lights of the buildings glowed in the distance, lighting the periphery of campus. Lamp posts dotted the walkways. Everything was quiet and still except for the droning song of the cicadas. The solitude and exercise always helped calm your nerves and clear your mind. You were sure you'd have a lot to think of tonight on your walk back to your dorm.

You checked your watch as you waited in the hallway outside of Professor Roger's office. Only half the lights above you were lit. No light shone from under the door. 30 minutes early, you breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't waiting on you.

You slid down the wall, sitting cross-legged on the floor, your bag resting on your lap and waited. The minutes ticked by. You moved the bag to the floor, hugging your legs to your chest while resting your head on your knees. Closing your eyes, you tried to control your breathing while counting to four and back to one. Relaxing was never something you were very good at. Your mind always seemed to want to nit-pick at every word you'd ever spoken and every action ever taken to find the flaws it felt the need to replay on repeat. For once, it was quiet in the dim fluorescent glow of the hallway.

He was fine. Steve reminded himself. He was still in control. It was just like reconnaissance. He needed to be near her, to learn about her. Once he had accomplished that, he could close the books and all of this would fade away. It was just the mystery he liked.

He wasn't one to arrive last to party. Punctuality was important to him. It showed responsibility for yourself and respect for others. But he wanted to see if she would be waiting for him. Would she be annoyed? Would she be mad? Irate at the hypocrisy? What he didn't expect was for her to be asleep. His smile at the sight of her quickly dissipated.

It was 6:45 in the evening. Much too early for a young woman to be this tired. He knew her schedule was spreading her a bit thin, but what was she doing when he couldn't watch her that would cause this level of exhaustion? Was he pushing her too hard? Did she know her limits? Or would she ignore her own well-being to please others? Or worse, was there someone else?

Oblivious to the sound of his footstep echoing against the linoleum, she slumbered peacefully not knowing that she was putting herself in danger. Vulnerable. Open to all sorts of attacks. How could she be so careless? So naïve?

She needed someone to take care of her. Someone who could nurture her need to please while encouraging self-discovery. No panty raiding frat boy would be able to give her that.

Or was he just finding ways to fit her into his desires?

Arms and legs jerking in all directions, you jolted awake at the sound of your name. Professor Rogers knelt before you, his eyes staring at your overturned bag, the contents splayed across the linoleum. He reached down and picked something up.

Gathering your possessions, you no longer cared if they laid neatly in the bag. "I'm so sorry," you muttered, shoving everything inside. Facing him once more, you noticed his hand stretched before you.

Between his fingers, he presented a small foil square with a telltale circle in the middle. His eyebrows nearly met between his eyes. His lips pressed thin.

You were going to kill Heather. If you didn't die first. Lips parting, no words came to your rescue. You wanted to explain it was a sick joke of your roommate, but you never got the chance.

Rising to his full height, he asked, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Your head shook furiously as you slowly stood, hugging your bag. Heat blazed through your body. You could feel the sweat beading in your palms.

"Are you sexually active?" His jaw clenched.

A squeak, then choking coughs were the only thing that issued from your widening mouth. "N-no!" you managed to sputter.

"Good. Then we can throw this away." He tossed the condom into a trash can a few feet from you before reaching into his pocket to pull out a metal ring with several items dangling from it. He inserted the key into his office door. The lock clicked decisively, and he pulled the door open waiting for you to walk in.

Crossing the threshold, you stood in the dark until a light was flipped on. You paused staring at the walls surrounding you. His desk was in front of a window. There were a few shelves with books. A table with a chair was to the left under a framed world map. Other than that, the beige walls were bare.

"Not what you were expecting?" Professor Rogers asked.

To be honest, you were disappointed. It looked like a regular teacher's office. You thought for sure his office would be a shrine to his glory days. "I guess, I was expecting more red, white, and blue."

"I save that for home. Too many people, students and faculty, tried to get in. I could have charged admission. It's just easier this way. Once everyone knew this room was nothing special, they left me alone."

You stared at the man before you. And for the first time you got a glimpse; not of the superhero, not of the intimidating professor, but of the human behind those facades. You didn't know which was scarier that he could kill a man with his bare hands, end your academic career with a swipe of his pen, or that he actually might have feelings.

Ignoring that revelation, you pulled out your papers and notebook and waited. He seemed to be waiting too but for what, you had no idea. "I appreciate you doing this. I, just, really don't understand what I'm doing wrong, and I know I could do better. Um, where should I sit?"

"You can work over there." He pointed to the table and followed as you approached it.

Taking your seat, you laid your papers and notebook on the wooden surface. He stood next to you then turned on the spot, leaning against the tabletop, his arms crossed against his chest. You stared up at him, not knowing what to do. Why did he make you so nervous?

"Read to me," he commanded.

"What?" Read to him? You looked around for a book or a magazine.

"Your paper. The first one. Read it to me," he clarified.

"Oh," you said with a shake of your head and a chuckle. I'm an idiot, you thought to yourself. You held up your paper, the red C glaring at you, and proceeded to read it out loud.

About halfway in he stopped you. "There. This is where you're lacking. You have told me facts, made comparisons, sited sources, but what you haven't done is taken all that information a step further. You're a good writer, technically speaking, but you need to dig deeper. How did all of that affect the people? The country? The world? You're good at drawing parallels between events, but you need to tell me why they were significant."

You leaned back and considered what he said, mulling over the questions he presented. Your pen bounced off your pursed lips as you tapped it against them, a habit you had formed whenever you thought. You caught it between your lips as inspiration struck. Flipping your notebook to a blank page, you began to scribble furiously.

Professor Rogers turned, one hand resting on the back of your chair, the other on desk as he leaned over you, reading your work. You could see the stubble on his jaw from his long day. It was surprising how long his eyelashes were and how soft his lips looked. Suddenly they started moving. Staring at them, it took you a second to realize that he was, in fact, speaking to you.

"That's good," he said as his eyes moved back and forth, reading your additions. "Good girl. Keep going. Read the rest of your paper, and I want to see what new conclusions you draw."

You fought hard to keep your smile at bay from the praise, but a warmth had settled in your core. "Yes, sir." He left your side to sit at his desk and for a fleeting moment, you were disappointed.

Steve watched her as she worked. Hand flying across the paper, leaving black cursive in its wake. He was grateful for the heavy desk in front of him, when she started tapping the pen to her lips again, parting them slightly as she traced her bottom lip with top.

He needed to calm down but the way she waited for him to give you instructions. The little "Yes, sir." He could see her fighting her instinct at being called a "good girl." Fighting her pleasure, her pride. What would it take to make her accept those feelings? To allow herself to smile?

Steve turned his attention to the yellow legal pad in front of him. Flipping to a new page, he tried to focus on his own writing, but his thoughts traveled to the condom that had spilled out on the floor. In all his hours of watching her, he'd never seen her with a boy. Was there someone he didn't know about? The idea made his insides churn. That some green boy might be climbing on top of her, using her to meet his needs without any regard to hers made bile rise to his throat, his hands flexed wishing for a face to punch. The vision of her shock and embarrassment at his discovery calmed the rage roiling within. Her reaction was too genuine and pure to be false. Now all he had to do was keep her that way.

He felt his resolve slipping as her foot tapped with an excess of nervous energy. Her thumb came to her mouth as she nibbled on her nail, shoulders hunched as she leaned over her work. He could do so much to help her. Alleviate her worries. Help her discover different ways of coping that both of you could enjoy. His hands rubbed his face, trying to scrub the images of her relaxed and sated underneath him from his brain. Steve had been in dangerous situations before where the fate of the world had rested on his shoulder but staying away from her was already proving to be a battle. How could he win a war against himself?

Rereading once more, you bit your non-existence nails. What if it still wasn't enough? What if he was disappointed? There was only one way to find out. You stepped towards the desk at a slow march.

Standing at the edge of the desk, you waited. Professor Rogers was engrossed in his writing. Thick fingers flexing around a type of pen you had only ever seen in an old movie. "What are you working on?" you blurted out.

Hair falling from the clutches of whatever product he used, his fingers brushed the golden locks back. His head turned up. Blues eyes meeting yours. Would they ever not devastate you? The universe was cruel to give you a teacher so good looking. He flipped his notepad over and put that cap back on his pen.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked such a personal question," you quickly added when he did not answer.

"No, it's fine. I'm working on an autobiography." He threaded his fingers together, resting them on the desk.

"You're writing a book by hand? Sorry to ask such an obvious question, but why don't you type it?"

"It's faster for me to process my thoughts this way."

"So…you can't use a computer?"

"I can. Pointing and clicking isn't difficult. It's the typing I'm not good at."

"Huh." You knew you were staring but you couldn't help it.

"What?" His eyebrows raised.

"Oh, nothing really. It's just the thought of you being bad at something. I had never considered that possibility."

He chuckled. "Even I have my limitations."

"What else are you bad at?" Ignoring his annoyance, you persisted. "Please, I'll never tell anyone."

He glared facetiously at you a moment then relented with a sigh. "Dancing."

"What? No. I've seen old movies. Everyone knew how to dance."

"Girls back then preferred to dance with men they didn't tower over."

"Oh." You had forgotten he hadn't always been the tall Adonis sitting before you. You had seen a picture of him before the serum once in a museum. It was hard to reconcile those two men.

Professor Rogers cleared his throat. The moment was over. "Let me see what you've written."

Handing him your notebook, you held your breath as he scanned each line.

"Good. Very good. I want you to retype your paper and turn it to me next time we meet. I'll regrade it and we can get to work on your second paper."

"Yes, sir. May I bring my laptop next time and just type my additions directly to the document?"

"That'll be fine."

"Thank you so much, sir. I appreciate you taking the time to help me."

"You're welcome." He picked up his pen and flipped over his legal pad and began to write once more.

You gathered your things and left quietly. Not wishing to disturb his night further. As for you, it was off to the library for real. You still had work for your other classes to complete. But knowing you were finally on the right track with your papers lifted a weight that had been burying you in self-doubt and despair.

The library was closing. Midnight seemed to come faster and faster every day, but it was a good thing they kicked you out. You had been reading the same paragraph for the last 15 minutes without absorbing any of it. You needed to get some sleep before your morning classes and afternoon filled with tedious cashier duties. Waving goodnight to the librarian, you walked into the night.

The breeze was cooler than you had anticipated. Your arms curled around you. It was definitely time to start bringing a light jacket with you for these late-night sessions.

"You shouldn't walk alone after dark," a deep voice sounded behind you.

Startled, your hand flew to your chest. "Professor Rogers! You scared the bejeezus out of me." Tried to calm your pounding heart. "It's just a few blocks on campus."

"You think nothing bad ever happens on campus?"

"No-um—" Of course, you knew better. You had heard horror stories. The first few times you walked alone at night on campus you had your can of mace ready. Once you realized you were one of the only people out, it became a distant concern, but you kept your ears and eyes open.

His hand wrapped around your upper arm and pulled you along. "Come on." He led you for a few feet before he let go of you.

You weren't sure what to do. Did you need to make small talk? Should you thank him? Should you be mad that he assumed you needed protecting? Truth be told you were a little grateful for his presence, but you hoped no one saw the two of you.

A strong breeze sent goosebumps up your arms. The next thing you knew a large blazer was being draped on your shoulders, warmth still radiating from it. It felt like the blankets your mother used to give you straight from the dryer. You wanted to wrap yourself in it, rolling into a ball until you were completely covered. And the scent. God, he smelled good. Like one of the candles you had put on the shelves at work. What was it? Mahogany and vetiver.

"Thank you," you said.

"You need to start carrying a jacket," he replied sternly.

"It wasn't chilly when I went into the library," you muttered.

He led you to your dorms and it briefly occurred to you that you had never told him which building you lived in, but before you could process that he took his jacket and said, "You need to go in and go straight to bed."

"Yes, sir," was all you could muster. What had just happened? Did Professor Rogers really just walk you home? And give you his jacket? You'd never even had a date do that for you. And really, was he concerned or just annoyed with you? You had thought he had started to warm up to you in his office. But now? Why was everything with this man so confusing?

And yet, you couldn't help but follow his instructions. You got ready for bed and climbed under the sheets. The faint smell of him teasing you as you drifted off.

Steve knew he needed to back off. Knew this would end badly if any hint of impropriety was sniffed out by other faculty or students. But he was addicted. Addicted to the way she followed his instructions and waited patiently for them. He bet she was already tucked in bed. And the way she found her voice tonight after receiving praise. She was curious about him and that one "good girl" had given her the confidence to ask him about himself. She didn't even ask about his time as an Avenger like anyone else would. Oh no, she asked him about his flaws. Most wouldn't dare. But his girl did.

He retraced his steps to his car. He hadn't thought she would still go to the library after their meeting. But there she had been, across campus under the light near the library entrance, walking alone. He had followed her many nights before making sure she made it to her dorm safely, but after her stunt falling asleep in the hallway, closer guarding was in order. Since her own safety was not a priority to her, he would have to make it a priority for himself.

There wasn't enough caffeine in the world to help you. Your boss had begged you to work earlier than usual. You usually helped unload the truck at 4 a.m. for a few hours until you had class. With the holidays fast approaching, more trucks were coming delivering items for sales and feasts weeks before they would be on the floor. It had been too hard to tell him no. And so, you turned up at 2 a.m. after leaving the night before at 10 p.m.

Now you sat in a darkened classroom, the buzz and clicks of a slide projector behind you lulling you into a stupor. Professor Rogers lectured and you tried to write notes. Knowing you had to see him again this evening, you didn't want to appear like you expected special treatment. You didn't. But civility would have been nice. However, he ignored you at the start of class just as he always had.

Covering your mouth as it opened in another gaping yawn, you tried to focus on what he was saying as the black and white slides turned on the carousel. Maybe if you just rested your eyes for a minute, you'd be able to keep them open longer.

Slam!

Heart pounding, you jumped awake. A thick book sat on your desk; Professor Rogers frowned down at you as the rest of the class giggled.

"Nice of you to rejoin us." He leaned down and whispered, "We will discuss this tonight." His breath tickled your ear. Taking the book, he continued lecturing.

The adrenaline pumping through your veins was enough to keep you awake for the rest of class. Of course, you still weren't paying attention. The thought of disappointing him and humiliating yourself once again played on repeat in your mind, interrupted only by the dread of tonight.

The wait for your meeting was torture. All you could think of was him taking back his offer of help and letting you flounder in your C for the rest of the semester. Would he do that you?

He was already in his office when you arrived. You knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. How many times had you had this exact encounter with your father? Walking into his office on your weekend with him. Accounting for any low grades or bad reports from school. Explaining why you never won any ribbons or trophies in the activities you were forced to participate in. To him, you were never enough. It was almost a relief when he remarried and started a new family, shunting you to side.

However, Professor Rogers didn't immediately bring up class that day. You gave him your completed first paper and he asked you to read your second. After discussing the conclusions you could draw from the information in your writing, you got to work typing those thoughts into your work.

"Was my lecture that boring?" Professor Rogers asked after several minutes of silence had passed.

Your fingers stopped their typing. "Oh no, sir. I'm so sorry—"

"Are you getting enough sleep?" He turned to rummage through a file cabinet behind him.

"What?"

"Are you getting enough sleep?" He peered over his shoulder at you.

"Well…I've been working extra hours. The holidays are coming up. The store needs more help."

"That's unacceptable." He closed the cabinet and turned to face you.

"I can't quit my job. I need the money." It wasn't a total lie.

"For what? Your tuition is paid in full. You don't have any financial aid."

It was true your father financed your expense now, but how did he know? "I want to be able to live on my own once I graduate. I know I may not get a good-paying job right out of college…even if I knew what I wanted to do. I need a nest egg."

"Why don't you live with your parents?" he asked.

"It's complicated." How did this meeting end up being about your home life? The last thing you needed was your professor knowing how dysfunctional your background was. You had it better than a lot of people you knew, but still, it was not something you intended to be common knowledge.

"I see." He tapped a stack of papers in front of them, aligning them perfectly. "I have a business proposition for you then. A job." He extended the documents toward you.

Crossing the office from your seat at the table, you took the papers and look over them. It was a Non-Disclosure Agreement.

"I value my privacy, so if we strike a deal, you'll have to sign that."

Staring at the legal documents in your hands, you replied, "You haven't even told me what your proposition is."

"I need a typist. I have deadlines to meet with my publisher. I can't type my autobiography as I go. I need someone else to do that for me."

"You could hire anyone. You could have people volunteer. Why pay me to do it?"

"You seem proficient at typing and grammar. If I placed an ad for someone, I would have hundreds of people to interview and sift through. This seemed the easiest."

So, you were just convenient. Of course. Story of your life.

He continued, "I would pay you fifteen dollars an hour."

The wheels in your brain stopped turning. Fifteen dollars an hour? Did he actually say that? That was almost twice what you made. A few months of this and your nest egg would be padded nicely.

"You'd be working with me in my home. Typing and maybe an occasional errand. Anything that you see, hear, or do in my home remains confidential as per that agreement. I'm not the easiest person to work with, I've been told, but I think we could both benefit from this."

Steve observed her struggles. He knew this would be difficult for her to accept but even more so to refuse. He needed her to say yes. Away from prying eyes on campus, he could finally start to really push her. To see if she could reach the potential he saw in her.

They needed this extra time to get to know each other. His office would never allow them to relax in each other's presence. There was always the chance of being seen or interrupted. His home, his sanctuary, might afford them the possibility to become more than just professor and student. More than just acquaintances. To become more.

Working with your professor in his home. Signing an NDA. All of this had the makings of Lifetime Movie but fifteen dollars an hour… "Am I even allowed to work for you? Are there any rules against this in the student handbook? Or in the employee handbook?"

"There aren't any specific rules, but we should probably keep this quiet just to avoid any possible jealousy or allegations of favoritism."

Skimming the document in your hands, you asked, "Can I take this with me and think about it?"

"Of course."

Even though you weren't finished with your paper, you needed to leave. To think without his eyes on you. Concealing the NDA in a textbook, you said goodnight and walked out the door. The dread you had felt earlier walking into the office had changed, swirling into something lighter, a mix of anticipation and maybe pride?

Professor Rogers could have asked anyone. Could have anyone for this position. But he asked you. He wanted you. Even if it was just convenience, it was still a sort of accomplishment. And a tiny bit of you, one you tried not to acknowledge, knew you wanted this position not for the money, but because you wanted him too.