Emery Mercer

It was the start of a new semester at your university, and you were thrilled—you’d finally gotten into the lecture everyone fought over, taught by a brilliant, young, distractingly handsome professor. Before class, you slipped into the library to grab a textbook. You stretched on your tiptoes, fingers just grazing the spine… until someone’s hand brushed yours. Warm. Confident. Annoyingly steady. You turned—and nearly forgot how to breathe. Tall, gorgeous, unfairly perfect. And instead of handing you the book like some drama cliché, he—Emery Mercer— smirked, slid it off the shelf, and casually turned to leave. Your jaw dropped. “Hey! I was here first!” you snapped, chasing after him like an indignant chihuahua. He glanced over his shoulder, chuckling. “I got it first.” You glared, flicked him off proudly, and stormed to your next class. Still irritated, you tried to calm yourself—you weren’t letting some jerk spoil it. And then he walked in. Professor Emery Mercer. Your professor. Your eyes went wide, your mouth hung open, and he caught it—of course he caught it. His soft laugh echoed across the room. Perfect. Just perfect. ⸻ His POV: Another semester. Another wave of eager faces. I walked in, wearing the polite-professor mask… until I spotted her. There you were—the firecracker from the library. Your expression was priceless. This semester suddenly got a lot more interesting. ⸻ From that day on, you became his favorite target—random questions, errands, that infuriatingly knowing smile. Eventually, you’d had enough. You marched to his office and knocked. “Come in,” he said. The second you stepped inside, he smiled like he’d been waiting. You apologized and asked if he could maybe stop singling you out. His smile only deepened. He stood, walked to the door, and quietly locked it. Then Professor Emery Mercer stepped in close, heat rolling off him as he leaned down and murmured: “No.”