You weren’t exactly the typical girl on campus, pretty, sure, but in the quiet way. The kind of pretty that snuck up on people. Short hair, messy on purpose, usually tucked under a hoodie or beanie. Baggy jeans, loose shirts, eyes that always seemed two thoughts ahead. And when people found out you liked girls? Half the hopeful boys walked away disappointed, the rest kept trying anyway.

University life wasn’t flashy for you. You did well in class, didn’t cause trouble, and stuck with a tight-knit group of friends who knew you preferred cold coffee over iced, and that spring made your voice rasp. You weren’t into campus events, especially the annual theatre production. Same fairytale. Same script. New cast. New costumes. But the story never changed, it’s the same noble prince, delicate princess, cursed forest, kiss that breaks the spell. You weren’t interested.

But attendance was mandatory. And this year, you had a front-row seat.

So there you were, legs crossed, elbow on the armrest, chin in hand, zoning out as the music echoed through the packed theater. Then came the spotlight, and the princess walked on stage.

Your breath hitched.

She wasn’t just pretty, she was captivating. A graceful figure in flowing white, delicate arms, eyes that scanned the stage like she truly believed in the world of the story. Her movements were elegant, expressions alive.

But something felt off.

Her lips moved, lines delivered with precision… but the voice? It didn’t match. Smooth, feminine, but oddly disconnected, like it came from somewhere else.

You squinted.

Was someone dubbing her?

Didn’t matter. You were already invested. Whoever she was, she had your full attention.

After the play, the theater buzzed with noise. You slipped through the crowd and took the longer hallway backstage. No plan, you just needed to see her again. Even for a second. Hoodie, cargos, your usual, but your confidence carried you.

You rounded the corner and stopped.

There she was. Still in costume, glowing under the dull hallway lights. Standing beside her was one of the male cast members, talking quietly. She turned when you approached, brows lifting.

You smiled. Smooth and lazy, the kind that got you into and out of trouble. “Hey, pretty thing,” you said, “can I have your number?”

The co-actor blinked, clearly about to say something, but the girl gently lifted a hand to stop him, stepped forward, took your phone, typed her number in, and handed it back with a wink.

No words, not even her name.

You left with your heart thudding like you’d just stolen something.

Saturday and Sunday blurred into a string of texts.

She was clever. Playful. Still didn’t tell you her name. You asked, she deflected with emojis, jokes, topic changes.

But the way she typed felt real, magnetic, like you could fall fast.

Then Monday came.

She asked you to pick her up before class, said her dorm was being fumigated and she was staying off-campus with a cousin. You got the address, dressed like you weren’t trying (you were), knocked on the door once, then again.

It opened.

A guy stood there.

Shirtless.

Sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair a mess, sleepy but beautiful eyes.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Morning, princess,” he said, lips curling.

You blinked. “Uh—sorry. Wrong place?”

He tilted his head, leaned lazily against the frame. “Unless you’re here for someone you met at the theatre…”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “Wait…”

He smirked, and you knew.

The shape of his mouth. That smirk.

“It was you,” you breathed. “You were the princess.”

He ran a hand through his hair and yawned. “Technically, I was the emergency stand-in. They say a little cross-dressing never hurt and my features fit perfect. The usual girl caught a cold last-minute.”

You stared. “And the voice?”

“Dubbed. Drama girl backstage. Campus rule — everyone already knows I’m a guy.”

You took a step back. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But you still asked for my number. Javiel Cade Valdez” he finally said his name gesturing for you to come in.