A Studious Affliction [Ziam] [Student/teacher]

Chapter Nine.

Wow, I love you all SO much! I mean, have you seen the votes on this story? It's... insanity. Thank you so, so much. I've got writer's block (AKA my nemesis) but regardless, here's the update as promised!

I want you to rock me, rock me, ROCK ME, yeah...!

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I don't sleep.

Okay, so I do - just, not a lot. At all. Even when my skittering mind allowed me one moment of peace to fall into a state of deep sleep, it decided to kick me around and tease me by making me dream of Mr. Payne. I'd say it was a nice dream if I didn't despise the fact it didn't actually happen. At one point, Mr. Payne was growling out commands at me and I was kissing him fiercely, crushed between his strong body and the sofa beneath me, then he started to reach down and tug my jeans off but, very suddenly, my eyes flipped open and my body was aching all over.

I had fallen out of bed.

Grumbling and sore and annoying aroused, I'd taken a cold shower and found myself unable to get back to sleep, hence why I am where I am now.

Costa Coffee.

"Hi," I say to the man behind the counter, smiling tiredly at him.

He briefly smiles back. "Hi there," he says. "What can I get you?"

"Uh..." I hate ordering at coffee shops because I never know how to pronounce what I want and you've got to be quick, or else the person behind you gets grouchy and starts huffing out very obvious objections. Maybe this is just a problem I have, though, as the kind of person that will hit themselves in the face with their laptop. Twice. Within two minutes. "I'll just have a medium mocha."

I like mochas because they're practically just caffeinated hot chocolates. They make my insides warm, and their taste lingers on my  tongue. Plus, 'mocha' is easy to pronounce; how the hell am I supposed to say macchi- maccho- macchiato? I mean, what is that?! It sounds like the Spanish word for machete. "Just the mocha."

"Take away?"

"Ah, no." And I still forget some of the information. Fantastic. "No, thank you. I'll stay inside."

The man - he must be a university student - rings my order into the register, humming under his breath. When he turns to make the drink, he looks back at me with a half-smile, looking way too alive for this time in the morning. "You're up early," he says. "No, you're out early. Any particular reason?"

Yes, and it's my teacher. "I couldn't sleep," I mumble, rubbing at my face. "Too many thoughts."

The man laughs and places a plate on the side, putting the mocha on top. "Well, this wont help that. Caffeine is the last thing you need."

"Oh, believe me, it's not."

The man laughs again and stores the money I hand him in the register. He nods at me as I pick up my drink and thank him, before settling into a seat right in the back of the shop.

It's pretty deserted in here; as with every coffee shop in London, there are people but few of them. Of course, there's the classic author-who-sits-in-a-coffee-shop type, the business-woman-about-to-start-work and the aroused-young-adult-who-can't-get-to-sleep.

AKA, me.

With a groan, I bury my head in my hands for one moment as my eyes slip shut. My brain is foggy and feels faint like it's turned to mush in my skull and I want to hit it repeatedly until it moves, kind of like how little kids bash against the glass of a fish tank to get the fishes to do something. Except, that wont work with me. I have to use caffeine instead.