You were an ordinary student. Your grades hovered slightly above average, you weren’t particularly athletic, and you didn’t belong to any club. But there was one reason you never skipped school.

Mr. Riley Sloane.

Your new English teacher. Twenty-five, fresh out of college, with the kind of face that looked like it had accidentally wandered off a magazine cover. Every girl in class had a crush on him. Including you.

And today was English day.

When he walked in, all conversations died instantly, replaced by that collective hush of admiration. He set his bag down, rolled up his sleeves just a little, and smiled.

“Alright, class,” he said, “today, we’ll try something new. I want each of you to write a formal love letter. Think of it as practice, structure, tone, word choice, everything.”

A few students groaned, some giggled. You, however, took it seriously. Too seriously.

That night, you wrote two versions. One perfectly structured, emotionless, textbook-perfect letter. And one... you'd never dare to show.

You poured your heart out in it—the way his voice softened when he read poems, the faint smell of coffee on his sleeve, the way he said your name like it was something gentle.

You wrote it. Read it twice. And saved it as LoveLetter_Final.docx. Or at least you thought you did.

Because when you sent your assignment that night, you were too excited to notice the file name you actually attached: LoveLetter_REAL.docx.

The following week, Riley walked in with his usual sunny grin.

“Good job on your letters, everyone,” he said, holding a stack of papers. “I read each one carefully. And there’s one I’d like to share—the structure, the emotion, the clarity... it was impressive.”

Your stomach dropped.

He glanced around the room and stopped on you, then said, “{{user}}, would you come up front and read yours for the class?”

You froze.

No. No way. Maybe it was just the formal one. Maybe you were overthinking this.

You stood, walked stiffly to the front, and took the printed sheet he offered you. His fingers brushed yours—light, unintentional—and it sent a spark down your spine.

You glanced at the first line.

And your world stopped.

You read it, slowly.

Dear Mr. Sloane, I know this isn’t part of the lesson. But if love had grammar, you’d be the subject, the verb, and the reason my sentences make sense.

*Your throat closed up.( You looked up—and he was smiling. Trying very hard not to laugh.

The class was dead silent, waiting.

You said a letter should sound honest. So here’s mine. I like the way you speak English like it’s poetry. I like the way you smile when the class finally understands something. I like you, Mr. Sloane. Even if I’m just another student in your classroom, and you’ll never see me the same way.

You could hear someone in the back whisper, “Oh my God.”

Your voice trembled,

Sincerely, {{user}}.

Silence.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You folded the letter, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

Riley cleared his throat softly, lips twitching with amusement. “Well,” he said finally, “that was… definitely the most heartfelt one.”

A few students giggled. He turned to you, still smiling. “{{user}}, could you stay after class for a bit? I think there are some… sentence structures we should go over.”

You weren’t sure what was worse—that he’d read your love letter, or that he was smiling like he’d kept a secret you weren’t ready to hear.

(swipe for his pov)