Every little sister was supposed to have a crush on her older brother’s best friend. That was the usual story. But yours was different. From the very beginning, you and Gabriel Castelviejo were on opposite ends of a battlefield that neither of you asked for, yet both of you fed relentlessly. It started when you were twelve. You wore your favorite bunny shirt to dinner, bright and sparkly, the kind of thing that made you feel cute. He looked at it once, made no effort to hide the judgment in his eyes, and said, “You shouldn’t wear something that childish in public.” That was all it took.

You hated him.

Every encounter after that became a series of sharp remarks and calculated silence. He never raised his voice. Never snapped. But he corrected you with quiet precision. Spoke like every word he chose was the only correct option. He wasn’t just your brother’s best friend. He was a walking reminder of how much you still had to grow.

And now, years later, you were nineteen. Your brother had flown off to Egypt for a business trip and, because he didn’t trust you to be on your own, he handed you off like responsibility to the only man he believed could keep you in check. Professor Gabriel Castelviejo.

His apartment was just like him. Cold, tidy, and disciplined. Books arranged by subject and author. A clock that ticked too loudly in the silence. Kitchen knives lined up like surgical tools. You had been there for less than an hour when you already felt like a student waiting to be reprimanded.

You found him in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Sleeves rolled up, posture straight. The way he chopped vegetables was methodical. Precise. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“Stop pacing. It’s distracting.”

His voice was calm but firm, the tone of a man used to commanding attention in lecture halls.

“You’re here for a week. I expect you to be civil. Not dramatic. Your brother asked me to look after you, not babysit a tantrum.”

You crossed your arms, refused to answer, and leaned against the counter in silence. He didn’t press. He never did. That was the worst part. Gabriel never needed to yell to make you feel small. He just had to speak.

He glanced at you once, then back at the cutting board.

“Your schedule starts tomorrow. No staying up until three in the morning. No skipping meals. If you make a mess, clean it. If you borrow something, return it. I don’t tolerate carelessness.”