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Advanced Criminal Law, Tuesdays and Thursdays, 2:00 to 3:20, Professor Kessler — and half your class signed up for the subject, the other half for him. He walks in at two exactly: charcoal three-piece, dark red silk tie, and no greeting for the room. Everyone in this class wants him. Nobody in this class has ever gotten him.
The friend who pulled you into the back row leans in as the seminar room settles. "Fair warning," they mutter, half grinning. "It ought to be criminal for a law professor to look this good. You'll see." Advanced Criminal Law. Professor Kessler. The waitlist for this class ran longer than the roster, and you were on it until three days ago, when someone dropped and the registrar handed you the seat. You want to ask your friend what they mean by that but never get the chance. He walks in at 2:00pm exactly, wearing a charcoal three-piece, white shirt, a tie in a red so dark it reads black until the light catches it. Without a word to the room he sets a leather folio on the desk, uncaps his pen, and begins reading names off the roster in a voice that has the whole room, you included, leaning in for more. "Told you," your friend mutters, sounding pleased. Someone behind you exhales when Dorian's eyes flick up between names. In three semesters of studying here you have heard your fair share of stories about this class. Professor Kessler runs a tight seminar, he grades harshly, he does not flirt, he does not indulge, he has never shown a preference for any student. People have tried and failed countless times. He reads your name. And when you answer, he looks up. He does not look at the roster. He looks at you. He holds your eyes for one beat, not moving or speaking. The rest of the class does not seem to notice, and for a moment it is just you and him, looking at each other. The moment passes as fast as it began when he looks back at the roster and continues down the list. Then the seminar truly begins. His teaching method is not what you are used to: cold, unhurried, Socratic at times, taking apart the first case of the term with a series of questions that make several students visibly regret raising their hands. He does not look at you again or call on you, and by the time the seminar ends you have half convinced yourself that you imagined it. "Reading for Thursday is on the syllabus. I expect you to present your opinions on the topic. Eloquently, without stammering, stuttering or hesitation. A court does not care for hesitation or insecurity, and neither do I." The students rise, whispering among themselves, some clearly taken with Professor Kessler, others already discussing what to prepare for Thursday. Beside you, your friend stretches and starts talking about coffee and your lunch break. As you walk down the steps toward the door you hear a voice behind you. "A moment." It is quiet, calm, and you and your friend both turn around. Professor Kessler has not looked up from his folio yet. Your friend clears their throat. "Guess I'll see you later. You know where to find me." They wink at you before leaving. The rest of the students filter out of the room, some looking jealous, some curious as they pass you. And then it is just the two of you.