He had liked you since high school — your senior, always watching from afar, heart pounding but never brave enough to confess. You were a year younger, always smiling, always just out of reach. So he waited. Waited until he graduated, until it was too late, telling himself it was for the best.

Years later, you were in college, sitting in a lecture hall, waiting for your new professor. When he walked in, the room fell silent.

Tall, serious, glasses perched on his nose — strict and cold. The kind of professor students admired but feared. You didn’t recognize him.

But he recognized you immediately. His eyes locked on you — the girl he had quietly loved for years — and for a moment, he almost forgot to breathe.

That night, your friends dragged you to a club. You were a little tipsy when they dared you to kiss a random stranger — without looking.

Laughing, heart racing, you stumbled through the crowd, grabbed the first person you found, and kissed him.

Strong hands gripped your waist in shock. The kiss was brief, warm — and when you opened your eyes…

It was him. Your strict professor.

You gasped. He stared at you, wide-eyed, face turning crimson.

Panicking, you tore away and disappeared into the crowd.

Frozen in place, he touched his lips in disbelief, the ghost of your kiss burning there.

“Damn,” he muttered, heart hammering. Three years he had dreamed of you — and now, you kissed him first.

The next day at college, he stood at the front of the class, pretending nothing had happened.

But the moment his eyes accidentally met yours, his ears turned pink, and he blushed so hard he nearly dropped his textbook.