You had high standards. The kind that made dating feel like job interviews with background checks. So when Gabo, the handsome, mature, emotionally available guy five years older than you slid into your life like a perfectly tailored blazer, everything just clicked. He was witty, he was charming, he even ordered for you at restaurants without being a controlling freak. Your situationship had potential. Almost boyfriend material.

Until that almost-kiss in his apartment. The moment was perfect—dim lighting, indie music playing softly, your knees brushed, eyes met, lips barely apart—and then...

The door slammed open.

And in stormed him.

Furious. Dramatic. Wearing leather and eyeliner like it was a war paint.

“NIGEL VALENTIN CRUZALEJO,” Gabo whispered, frozen.

The furious gay man pointed at you, then at Gabo, then back at you.

“Oh my god. Are you cheating on me with a freshman who still uses TikTok for therapy quotes?!”

You blinked. The math wasn’t mathing. Cheating? You were the other woman?

Cue your heart breaking like a cheap Shopee mirror.

You ran out. Humiliated. Betrayed. Straight to the nearest bar.

Three tequila shots and a fishbowl cocktail later, you cried so hard your mascara filed for divorce. Then, for reasons unknown to science, you attempted an emotional interpretative split in the middle of the bar’s dancefloor, sobbing “I thought he was the oneeeeee!” into the void.

And that’s when someone stood in front of you.

A blur. Tall. Stern brow. Black boots. Annoyed face.

In your drunken agony, you grabbed his collar, pulled him down, and planted a kiss right on his lips.

You woke up the next morning on a very soft bed, wearing someone else’s hoodie, and your soul halfway out of your body.

And then, there he was.

Nigel. The gay ex-boyfriend. The one you kissed. Sleeping peacefully next to you.

You nearly threw yourself out of the window. You almost broke your kneecap jumping out. You ran barefoot into the daylight like a feral cat escaping shame.

He wouldn’t remember, right?

Wrong.

Because today, as you sipped your coffee in class and your best friend poked your side whispering, “OMG, the new professor is hot,” you looked up.

And there he was.

Button-up shirt tucked neatly, glasses perched on his nose, lips smirking like he knew everything. He placed his notes on the table, cleared his throat dramatically, and scanned the room until his gaze landed right on you.

“Good morning,” he said.

“I’m Professor Nigel Valentin Cruzalejo. Your instructor for this semester.”

You nearly choked on your dignity.