Chapter 3 - Not Bad, Sinclair!

Vee

Four days have passed since Professor Hill—well, Tyler—took me to dinner at Laura’s Kitchen. I haven’t seen him since, not even on campus. It doesn’t help that my schedule is only one class a day, except on Mondays, so the chances of running into him are next to none.

But every time I think about that night—the brush of our spoons, the way he looked at me, that almost-smile—my face heats up before I can stop it. Who knew one serving of tiramisu could linger like that?

“Hey, Vee! Done with classes today?”

Chloe leaned against my doorway, her blonde hair falling in effortless waves. Chloe Davenport—my dorm mate and a Sophomore in Film Studies. On my first day in Ashenwood, she was the one who hauled my heavy suitcases up to the room. She looks girly, but don’t be fooled—she’s athletic and a bit of a tomboy.

“My class is at one o’clock. Directing Fundamentals, taught by…” I fished out the schedule tucked into my notebook. “Thomas Hunt? Wait—seriously? Does that mean I’ll see Tyler Hill again?”

I could barely believe it. I’d just been thinking about him minutes ago, and now… I had to face him again. After four days without a single word.

Chloe plopped herself on the edge of my bed, grinning like she’d been waiting all day to gossip. “You know, people are jealous of you. At least half the campus wishes they could take Thomas Hunt’s class. But… honestly? Thomas is terrifying. Always grumpy, always mocking anything modern, clinging to his traditional methods. Most students avoid him like the plague.”

“And now Tyler’s taking over,” I muttered.

“Exactly.” She leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “The famous assistant. Technically he’s just a substitute, so he should be called Mr. Hill. But nope—everyone calls him professor anyway. Like his presence alone demands a bigger title.”

I rolled my eyes. “Tyler’s no different. Strict, sarcastic, allergic to smiling.”

Almost never smiles, I corrected silently. Except that one night. That almost-secret smile that still made my stomach flip whenever I remembered it.

“Yesss, but come on,” Chloe pressed, wagging her brows like a cartoon villain. “Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. That hair—black, tied back all neat. Can you imagine if he let it down?” She fanned herself dramatically, then covered her face with both hands. “People call him Professor Dreamy, you know.”

I nearly choked. “Professor Dreamy? That’s what you’re going with?”

She peeked at me between her fingers, giggling. “Don’t even pretend you don’t see it. Relax, not my type.” She flicked her hand. “I already have a boyfriend.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Jason Clarke, the Football Guy? Defense for the Eagles, lives two hours from here?” My tone was pure mockery.

Chloe burst out laughing and swatted my shoulder.

“Anyway,” she said, standing, “how about we go out tonight? There’s a popular club nearby—The Tavern. We can hang out, and you can… maybe find a boyfriend?”

I made a face. “I’m not sure about the boyfriend part, but hanging out? That sounds better than spending Friday night in this tiny room.”

“Perfect. I also want to introduce you to my crew. We call ourselves The Reels.”

“The Reels?” I echoed, curious.

“Yep. My best friends since freshman year. Sophie, Ethan, and Liam. They’re great—you’ll fit right in.”

I smiled. “Okay, deal. See you there.”

The clock read 12:40. I grabbed my bag and hurried out. Only one thought in my head now: Don’t be late to Tyler’s class.

“Good luck, Vee!” Chloe called after me, her voice echoing down the hall.

I held my breath. Please let me be ready.

\~\~\~

Tyler

Directing isn’t my passion—It’s Thomas’s. And yet here I am, teaching it. But I know I shouldn't complain because If not for Thomas, I might’ve dropped out of Ashenwood, vanished somewhere, doing work that wouldn’t even want someone like me.

Directing Fundamentals is heavy on practice. I hate that part—too much uncertainty, too many people to move into place. I hope today ends quickly.

My steps felt heavy as I entered the studio. The spotlights hung low, their heat on my skin like a warning. Practice cameras lined one wall; cables snaked across the floor like traps. Folding chairs stood in a loose circle, inviting and judgmental all at once.

And there she was.

Victoria. Dark hair curtaining one cheek, sitting in the very back as if hoping the dimness would swallow her whole. Teaching a practical class is headache enough—now I had to pretend her presence didn’t unsettle me.

I’d done a decent job avoiding her these past few days. Every time I caught a silhouette with that hair in the hallway, I changed direction. I can’t falter.

“Front row, Sinclair,” I said, voice crisp, from the front of the room. “If you want to learn directing, you don’t hide in the back.”

Heads turned. She looked up—startled for a fraction—then rose and moved forward. My heart tried to quicken but I forced it to obey.

“Alright,” I cut through the murmurs. “Directing isn’t just telling people what to do. It’s reading the text, interpreting emotion, and igniting life in an actor’s body. We’ll go straight to practice.”

A ripple of nerves moved through the chairs. This course could make even the most confident students could shatter, unsure, and exposed.

“Pair up. One director, one actor. Five minutes to prepare. Show me a short scene.”

I scanned the roster. “Walsh with Marlowe. Blake with Jensen. Sinclair with…” A pause too long is weakness; I held it just enough. “Carter.”

I caught a flicker of panic in her eyes—there and gone. She turned, found Carter. He stood, hand raised, the easy posture of someone used to performing. Good. At least her partner wouldn’t crumble first.

I walked the room as they prepared. Whispers traded, pages rustled, a tripod clicked into place. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Victoria roll her script, then smooth it flat again—a tell of someone trying to steady herself. Carter pointed to two or three lines; they met each other’s gaze. Victoria nodded—too fast.

“Time’s up,” I said. “Walsh’s group first.”

One pair, then another, with notes in between—my familiar rhythm. “Show action, not explanation.” “Motivation, not volume.” “Hold the pause; let the audience breathe.”

“Sinclair—Carter.”

They stepped forward. Carter angled his body slightly, one hand in his pocket. Victoria stood two paces away, shoulders tight. I don’t like tight shoulders. Tight shoulders are lies.

“Begin,” I said.

The scene rolled. Carter’s first line was decent: steady, not overdone. The problem was Victoria; her voice was right, but her eyes were trying to be correct. No danger. No secret.

“Stop,” I cut in. All eyes swung my way. “Sinclair, what do you want from him?”

She looked at me. “Conflict—”

“Not a textbook answer,” I said evenly. “What do you want—right now?”

She drew a breath. “I want him to confess.”

“How will you force it?”

A beat of silence. I hate fearful silence. Then she stepped half a pace closer to Carter—not enough. “Half again,” I said.

She obeyed. Those hazel eyes lifted. Something moved there—small, risky. Carter responded; his shoulders shifted, chin lowered. Good. Pressure found its mark.

“Continue,” I said.

The dialogue tightened. Victoria held her last syllable, letting the air stretch. Carter took the bait, dropped his voice. The room grew quiet in the best way—the kind of quiet that means attention.

“Cut,” I said on the right beat. “Not bad. But you’re still safe, Sinclair. I don’t want safe. I want honest. Your face is already talking; let your voice lead it.”

She nodded. A slight change in the line of her jaw. I turned before I read too much.

The rest of class flowed. Notes, a quick demonstration, a short laugh when an improv went off the rails. When the bell nearly rang, I closed my notebook.

“Assignment for the week: choose a two-page scene. Directors—prep blocking and motivation. Actors—bring a brief backstory. We perform Friday. Class dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Feet shuffled. I stopped myself from searching for her in the crowd.

“Sinclair,” I called, neutral.

She turned. “Yes, Sir—” She looked startled for a second

I pretended not to notice.

“Don’t play it safe,” I said. “Follow your instinct and see what happens.”

For a split second, those eyes challenged me. “Alright.”

She left, catching up to Carter at the door. The air in my chest didn’t feel as tight as before—and I didn’t like that realization.

Directing still isn’t my passion. But today… class wasn’t as exhausting as I expected.

And that’s exactly the problem.

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