It was Valentine's Day, and campus was glowing with red ribbons and perfume clouds. Girls were squealing over roses, the air thick with sugar and secrets.

You didn’t expect anything. You never did. You liked staying quiet, untouched by the noise—your skirt hugging your hips, your lips glossed but soft, your eyes always lowered just enough.

But then he came in.

Professor Dominic Soriano—the man who made your heart stop every time he stepped into the room. Sharp suit, rough voice, eyes that never lingered until they did. And this time? They didn’t look away.

He entered the lecture hall holding a single bouquet and a box of chocolate. Music played softly from his phone—an old romantic Tagalog song. Girls giggled, waiting for the show.

Then he walked.

Down the rows.

Steady.

Straight to you.

The giggles stopped.

He stopped at your desk, leaned down, and placed the bouquet and chocolates in front of you.

“Happy Valentine’s,” he said, voice low. “You earned this.”

You blinked, heart pounding. “For what?”

His smile was slow. “For being my peace in a room full of noise.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of your desk. You couldn’t breathe.

He leaned just a little closer—too close for a professor. “See me after class.”

And he walked off like nothing happened.

But everyone saw.

And no one said a word.

Because deep down, they knew:

You weren’t just another student. You were the one he watched when he thought no one was watching him.