Sunshine

15| into your equation

No matter how much he tried, Maxwell couldn't fight off the racing images in his head. This was all because of her short uniform, he thought miserably.

Well, that seemed a lame excuse to him, though. Cassia had always been wearing short stuff in the house.

Oh boy, that was a foolish thought.

After all, Cassia was his sister. There was no way he could get any other feelings for her except the blood thing.

But... Most of the girls in the area loved short stuff too, he reminded himself. But yet he hadn't had any sort of trouble with them, had he?

Nana Yaa also seemed to be cool with her short uniform, so why should he...

Perhaps he should tell her to wear longer stuff.

That one too, he realized, was a useless idea. Where would she get them from?

When he banged his calculator on the table for the fourth time, she looked up at him from her own work, her expression one of a faintly pained one.

"Jeez, what's eating you?"

He pursed his lips, tipped down his reading glasses and peered at her over them.

She could have laughed at the gesture, but she didn't.

What indeed was eating him? He thought. The funniest part was that he was starting to blame her. Maybe if she didn't look so good, smell so good, he could_ he could've tried. The problem was that he found himself thinking about how she'd looked, had smelled, what she'd said, throughout the day.

He didn't like to worry. He wasn't used to thinking about a girl for so damn long.

And if he just didn't overthink how pretty she looked, punching her calculator and scribbling in her book, her eyes glittering a brilliant white with the pupils dark with concentration, her long, narrow feet crossed neatly at the ankles, part of her slim, fair thighs showing off, he didn't suffer.

But, and here was the crank_ how was he supposed not to think about it?

It amused him a bit to realize that they were playing Sir. Nicholas and Martha in YOLO.

"I'm done." She finally pushed her book gingerly across the table of his office to him.

"That was fast," he said. He glanced through her work and found out with deep impression that she was right in every step. Her handwriting was as neat and sleek as herself. "You've got it. You're right."

"Really?" She cheered. "Thank God. And thank you, too."

As usual, he shrugged, much from embarrassment.

"So what's next?" She probed.

"Why don't we work orally?" He suggested warily. His voice had a husky edge to it.

She cast him a regal look. "The exams is to be written. Why bother practicing with orals?"

"Because it makes your mind sharper." He declared. His face had this weary look on it.

"You must be tired, Maxwell. Why don't we call it a day so you go catch some rest?" She suggested with concern.

"No." He refused. What was bothering him wasn't tiredness. It was the strain of control.

"Are you sure?"

He had to smile, despite himself. He felt amused by her look of concentration.

If only she knew.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

And she gave up, since he insisted he was fine. And as he began to shoot questions at her, he found out she was very good, could add and subtract faster than lightning. He could admit that he was deeply impressed.