Gemotions

"So, explain this to me, Mr. Davies," the Dean's voice was sharp, a shard of ice in the warm room. Michael’s gaze remained stubbornly fixed on the intricate grain of the wooden desk. He felt a blush creep up his neck, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He pushed his glasses up his nose, a nervous habit he hadn't realized he had until that very moment. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he shifted in his chair, trying to find a position that would make him feel less exposed, less vulnerable. He hated the way his voice trembled when he finally spoke.