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He didn’t notice at first. Students file past him, quiet conversations that pass his ears without comprehension, Emmrich’s eyes on his lecture notes. The projector is on, slides ready behind him, and he adjusts his glasses, placing his notecards at the corner of the lectern, not that he would need them, of course. The three tiered lecture hall was mostly full, the few seats emptied by students who dropped the class early on. It was never Emmrich’s intention to drive students from his classes, but he did not tolerate those that have no grasp of the importance of the work. The body may be a cathedral of knowledge, but those walls are full of memory. A visual system of stained glass that saw life in a unique blend of color. A belltower of neurons. An organ that played a pulse of lasting relationships.
Never forget that you’re studying the story of you.
Emmrich clears his throat, students growing quiet, laptops opening, a few macbooks announcing their presence with a resounding thrum. His eyes scan each face, wordlessly reciting each name as he takes an internal attendance. “Guten Morgen. I trust you read the text assigned from last week’s class. First, a reminder-,” his words halt, caught in his throat when his gaze lands on a young woman near the back. Round spectacles sit low on a petite nose, cornflower blue returning his stare quite innocently. Her curls are pinned up, yet strands fall around her face in delicate spirals, a wildness to hair that she cannot tame. “A reminder that your essays on the importance of the lymphatic system in immunity are due by 11:59 this evening.” He continues in a low, warning voice, brow arching when the young woman smiles at him.
Glasses could never hide the face his fingers traced this morning as he kissed her goodbye. Hair accessories do not diminish the memory of what her curls look like spilled over their pillows when she’s beneath him.
He would know his wife anywhere. Especially when the rotten little thing was wearing his sweater.
“I see we have a new face with us today,” he says, a wicked smile spreading across his lips that has a few students in the front shifting uncomfortably. He spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture, bangles jingling. “Don’t be shy. Bitte. Stand up and introduce yourself.” A few students exchange strange looks, confused by Dr. Volkarin’s sudden behavior. He hates icebreakers.
Ollie’s lips are parted in surprise, and then she grimaces, placing her hands flat on the table, then standing up. Okay, she didn’t expect that. Every face in the room turns to look at her, chairs scraping as bodies adjust to the awkward angle. She gives Emmrich a wide eyed look, but he appears very self satisfied. “Nervous?” He asks, sounding reasonably concerned for a man ruining her carefully made plans. “Come now. We won’t bite.” He grins again. It says what he doesn’t - But I will.
“Hallo,” she begins slowly, eyes darting about the room. Her cheeks flush, and she takes a cleansing breath, entirely regretting her decision. “My name is Liesel. Liesel…,” she drags the name out, eyes darting around the room while trying to think of a surname. “Volgellvar?” It comes out like a question.
“Volgellvar,” Emmrich deadpans, momentarily forgetting their little game. Oh, liebling. His mustache twitches.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s me,” she says, sounding a little defeated. She smiles, sheepishly.
“Well. Sit down, Fräulein, and try to keep up. It is the middle of the term, after all.” He swiftly returns to the podium, clicking to the next slide.
***
The last student leaves, the lecture hall quiet, some chairs still haphazardly pulled out as if the ghost of its former occupant remains. Ollie slowly puts her things away, ignoring the sound of the door closing, the click of the lock, and the slow, steady footsteps of her husband as he ascends to the third tier of seats where she’s trying very hard to look invisible.
“Liesel, was it?” He asks, voice pitched low. A single ringed finger slips beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to his. “Beautiful name. My wife and I considered it for a future daughter’s name.”
“Oh?” She breathes, swallowing. “Your wife must be very clever and lovely to come up with such a perfect name.” Her eyes stray to the right. “As a Liesel myself, of course.”
He chuckles, velvet-like and deep. “Liebling, what compelled this clever disguise today, hmm?” He lets go of her chin, knuckles brushing across her soft cheek. “Were you missing your Professor?”
“I thought I would surprise you,” she pouts, scrunching her nose when he removes her glasses. She watches him carefully fold the temples and lay them on the other side of the tabletop. “I was at home and feeling neglected.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “Neglected? I am a very poor husband for leaving you in such a condition.” He clicks his tongue. “Come, meine Frau.” His fingers deftly pull out her clip, his eyes dark as her hair spills around her shoulders. He arranges her curls with gentle fingers. “Do you know what I was thinking when I saw you sitting here? An innocent little lamb nearly swallowed by my sweater.”
Ollie doesn’t say anything, too busy staring at him while every nerve in her body begins to sing simply from the way he’s looking at her. “Olivia,” he says gently, but firmly. “Use your words. Do you know what I was thinking, Schatz?”
“What were you thinking, min älsking?” His nostrils flare at her Swedish, and he sucks in a breath. His bangles clash together as he grabs her waist with almost feral intensity, lifting her from the chair, and pivoting, urging her to sit on the table. He slots himself between her legs, pressing so close, she can feel his quickening breath against her lips.
Maker, he looms over her. Curls over her, eyes blazing, hips pressing closer. Seeking. Grinding. Contrary to the heat of the moment, he presses a wisp of a kiss to her lips. “There is no man more fortunate than I,” he says tenderly, his nose tracing a line across her cheek. “Also, my wife is deranged.”
She snorts, placing a hand on his chest. He grins a little, pulling back to look at her face, utterly undone by the silly girl in front of him. “I thought we were going to have scandalous sex in your classroom,” she says, heaving a playfully disappointed sigh.
“Oh, Ollie,” he says gravely, the clink of his belt catching her attention as he slowly pulls the leather from its loops. “Did you really think you were going to get away with this?”
Her mouth goes dry when he pulls himself, thick and wanting, from his trousers. “On your knees, Frau Volkarin. Be a good girl.”