HER PROFESSOR'S GOOD GIRL
Before I could even answer, the door creaked open, and Stephan walked in.
For once, he wasn’t shirtless, but he might as well have been with how the t-shirt he had on clung to him like a second skin. In his hand was a bowl of neatly cut fruits; apples, pineapples, watermelon and grapes.
“For brain fuel,” he said simply, setting it down beside my books.
“You… brought me fruit?” I blinked at him, thrown off. He hummed, eyes scanning my notes.
“You’re overworking yourself,” he mused. “Your handwriting’s getting worse.”