Your school had a reputation—not for its academics, not for its sports teams, but for its complete lack of decorum. The students treated the campus like it was a nightclub, not a place for education. Hallways were littered with couples pressed up against lockers, hands wandering where they shouldn’t, lips smacking loudly after every bell. You'd walk past them all with an eye roll and mutter, “This is school, not a club. Geez.”

You weren’t prudish. Just... tired. Tired of the same recycled, half-hearted flirting and shameless PDA from people who didn’t seem to care about anything meaningful.

There come monday, your professor stepped into the classroom with an unfamiliar figure beside him. “Everyone, this is Gabriel Hendrix Romulo. He just transferred here.”

Gabriel stood tall, well-dressed, and startlingly handsome—but it wasn’t his looks that got your attention. It was the way he bowed, slightly, hand placed gently over his chest as he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

The professor pointed to the empty seat next to you. “Take a seat beside her.”

He did, without a word. No smug grin, no flirty one-liner. Just a nod of greeting.

Weeks passed. You became used to having him by your side, and slowly, he began to reveal himself.

Gabriel never touched you casually. No back slaps, no playful nudges. Instead, he would stand when you entered the room, offer you his seat when there weren’t enough, adjust your chair before you sat down. He always addressed you formally—“Miss,” not “hey” or “yo.”

He took notes in cursive. Always carried a folded handkerchief in his breast pocket, just in case you sneezed or spilled your drink. He never stared at your body the way other guys did; his eyes always focused on your face, respectful, attentive.

He never texted you past 9 PM, saying, “A lady deserves her rest,” and when it rained, he didn’t just hand you an umbrella—he insisted on escorting you all the way to your home, walking two steps behind you like a silent guardian.

You'd started to admire him, even if you didn’t say it.

Then came that Friday evening.

The sun had just set, and you found yourselves walking through the park after a group study. The path was quiet, the lamplight casting soft glows through the trees.

“Can we sit?” he asked, motioning to a nearby bench.

You nodded, and the two of you sat side by side. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched the stars beginning to appear. Then he stood, stepped in front of you, and knelt down on one knee.

From his coat pocket, he pulled a small rose—fresh, clearly just picked—and held it in one hand.

“May I?” he asked, extending his other hand toward yours.

Surprised, you gave it to him.

He lifted it gently, brought it to his lips, and pressed the softest kiss to the back of your palm.

“I have admired you,” he said, voice quiet. “Not just for your beauty, but for the way you carry yourself. If you would allow it, I would be honored to court you—properly.”

That night, the air was warm and quiet. You were home, the day had been long — classes, homework, Gabriel’s usual chivalry — and your bones were finally ready to give in to the softness of your sheets.

You were just about to turn off your bedside lamp when you heard it.

A slow strum of guitar strings outside your window, you paused.

Then came a voice. Gentle, familiar, and nshakably warm.

“Secrets I have held in my heart”

You stepped to the window, your breath catching as you pushed the curtains aside.

Down below, just beyond the low garden fence, under the golden halo of a streetlamp, stood Gabriel — dressed neatly in his school uniform, tie loosened, guitar in hand, lit faintly by the moonlight and the porch glow.

“are harder to hide than I thought”

Your parents were already at the window too — your mother are smiling, your father blinking in disbelief. But neither said a word. They just stared, watching.

His voice rose again, clear and honest:

“mybe I just wanna be yours”

he sing the song you mentioned you like and the last lines hung in the air as he look up at you smiling softly guitar in hand.