Sunshine (Student/Teacher Romance) 18+

19

Ari

I'm doing too much.

It was clear by the look on his face when he saw me standing here, dressed up, cooking in his kitchen.

I didn't even ask permission.

There I go overstepping again. He's just too nice to say a word about it. He wants to spare my feelings. I'm just the poor girl who has no one, except him.

But truly, I really do just want to thank him. To give him something else to eat that isn't garbage. It's amazing how fit he is even eating all that processed food.

I made baked chicken, veggies, and mashed potatoes that I'd mashed myself, even with my hurt wrist. It's worth it to me, to see him finally eat something decent. Hopefully he doesn't think I'm being weird.

I set the tiny table for us, serving the plates, filling the glasses, and I see him leave the bathroom in only a towel and hurry into his bedroom.

My eyes linger on the sparkling beads of water that cling to his bare skin. My subconscious screaming that I wish the ends of the towel he had held in his fist would slip so I could see what's underneath.

Just like everyone else at school, I'm drooling over a man that's inaccessible to any of us. Especially me.

The charity case.

And I think knowing that just makes him all that much more appealing. That and the fact that he clearly has no clue just how amazing he looks. He's modest, sweet, genuinely kind. And I'm the only one who knows just how far his kindness extends, by letting me stay with him until I'm eighteen.

He comes back out, dressed like he's getting ready for another day at school. Dressed in a polo and dark slacks. He'd even done his hair, despite it already being eight at night and I know he was really only planning on grading and reading journals before he went down for bed at nine thirty. It didn't take long for me to see that he had his own strict schedule he abides by.

"I was leaning toward sweatpants, but this is an occasion after all," he says as he takes his seat in front of me.

I can read between the lines. We're both thinking the same thing. This is the closest we could ever get to eating at an actual restaurant. In public. Which is what I would have preferred to do in order to thank him, he had to know that.

We ate while we ran through topics like school, cooking, more of him encouraging me to go to college, sharing our thoughts on necessary campus improvements, questions I had about the upcoming essay, and even more of him shoving college down my throat. At this point, if it would shut him up, I'll apply to a few.

After dinner, I began clearing the table off, only to hear that he'd beat me to the dishes before I could even get to the sink.

"Mr. C, you don't have to do the dishes."

"I do. You cooked, I'll clean. It's the least I can do."

I stand by while he cuts on the water.

"You're lucky," he adds. "If the food wasn't so good, they'd be all yours." He winks at me and I feel my thighs tighten. This man is pure torture. I'm in his house with him every night and all I can do is lay in his empty bed, still heavy with his scent, knowing that's the closest I'll ever get to laying with him.

I watched him wash, his muscles flexing with every scrub against a pan and every scrape against a pot.

I knew they were aching, I'd watched him stretch his limbs a few times during dinner and relished in every groan he made. Sounds I'll be imagining while I'm lying in his bed tonight.