𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐘

[01] Stormy Eyes

s t o r m y  e y e s
COVEY'S POV:

Holy dino chicken nuggets.

All I can say is: Dang, my English professor. That's it. Just, Dang. I'm not sure if that's a good dang or a bad dang, but holy dino chicken nuggets—dang.

He walks into the brightly lit auditorium as soon as the clock strikes 10:00 a.m. with a couple of papers in his hand, eyes scanning over the pages intensely, and he starts to speak gibberish without lifting his nose from the crisp whiteness. "Hello," his voice is deep and flat, echoing against the classroom walls, "my name is Conrad Monroe, and I will be your English professor in Creative Writing this term. Call me Sir, Professor, or Dr. Monroe. I will not tolerate being called by my first name."

And he has a hot name. I think holy huckleberry, yes.

"I expect to see you give me a hundred and ten percent, nothing more and nothing less. Anyone who cares to break my expectations is more than welcome to leave the room." Professor Monroe takes this as his opportunity to finally draw an image of his audience, his sharp eyes flickering over the flood of students. "Any takers?"

No one dares to move a muscle.

"Great. Hopefully I have a classroom full of students who came here to get a degree and write captivating papers. If not, this is just a waste of my time and yours."

I catch the color of his hard stare, and his eyes just so happen to be a deep, stormy gray color. Fitting enough.

"I'll start today off with an attendance count so I can put a name to a face, and we'll go from there. Sound good?" He gives us a curt nod even though no one answers.

While he's listing off the names of different students, I lean back against my chair and get a deeper look at him. He has jet black hair that's neatly slicked back, piercing gray eyes that look like they're living daggers, his nose was for sure sculpted by the great Michelangelo, his white button down shirt fit snug but not too snug around his lean physique, but what bothered me was the way his cupid's bow curled so perfectly but never etched a smile.

In fact, the way he talked, the way he held his chin up high, the way he said everyone's name like it was a chore—that bothered me. But he was hot. And distracting. And his lips were the only thing I could concentrate on. It takes me three more seconds after this semester-altering thought to realize that Dang, my English professor is way too good looking.

Like Vogue magazine kind of good looking.

Definitely not a good dang.

"Covey Jensen," he deadpans like he did with every other name.

"Here," I say, my voice raising an octave unexpectedly. I clear my throat. "But I like to go by Coco or Cove or I guess Covey is okay too." Why do I have to ramble?

"Alright, Miss Jensen." He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side in... amusement?

I tilt my own head like a confused dog.

His eyes narrow for a moment and he nods to himself before snapping out of it and moving on to the next name. And it goes like this for at least a few more minutes—him saying a name, matching a face, stealing a glance at me—until he runs out of names to read aloud and he turns his back to us to write something on the big whiteboard behind him.

He starts talking about the syllabus, the coursework, workload, etcetera etcetera. Things only the ancient dinosaurs need to know about. Yes, my dino chicken nuggies.

"Since it's the first day of lectures, the assignment will be an introductory paper. I want you to write a one-page memoir of a time in your life where you've had to think about who you are. For example, what your identity is, who you want to be, why you are who you are. One page, nothing more and nothing less. Understood?"