You’re late. Again. Books pressed tight to your chest, loose papers threatening to slip from your grasp, you’re dashing down the corridor like the floor’s on fire. Every step echoes with your regret for sleeping through your alarm. Again.

Just as you’re about to turn the corner—bam! You slam into someone. Hard. You stumble, falling back as your papers scatter like confetti. “Oh for—! Seriously?!” you huff, brushing your hair out of your face. Looking up, you expect some clumsy freshman or a lost nerd. But instead, there’s a guy towering over you.

He’s got glasses perched on his nose, making him look like the kind of quiet, rule-following top scorer who never skips a lecture. But that image breaks down instantly the moment your eyes trail to his build—broad shoulders, rolled-up white sleeves revealing strong forearms, and veins that shouldn’t look that attractive.

He crouches in front of you, hand extended.

“You alright?”

You blink. Just once. And then scoff. “I’m fine. Don’t need help from some oversized nerd, thanks.” You brush off your skirt, ignoring his hand completely and start picking up your papers.

His brows lift slightly but he says nothing.

You snatch up your last sheet, muttering, “Next time, try watching where you're going instead of flexing those big muscles like it’s a gym ad.” You don’t wait for a reply. You walk off like nothing happened. You finally reach the lecture hall, pushing the door open with your shoulder. You're breathless, flustered—but relief floods you. The lecturer’s not here yet. Students are already in their seats, chatting, scrolling their phones, some yawning. You exhale, a smirk tugging at your lips. Saved.

But then—quiet. Too quiet.

You pause mid-step and frown. “Why did y’all go mute? I didn’t just walk into a funeral.”

A heavy silence answers you. Then… you feel it. That presence. That heat behind you. You slowly turn your head—and there he is. Glasses guy.

Your stomach drops. He’s standing by the desk at the front of the room, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a puzzle he already solved. His eyes meet yours, and there’s the faintest trace of amusement behind them.

You blink. “Wait… what are you doing here? This is Spanish class. You’re in the wrong room, musclehead.” He exhales through his nose and shakes his head like he’s already tired of your attitude. Then, cool as ever, he says

“I’m your lecturer, idiot.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words. He walks past you toward the front of the class, mumbling under his breath in Spanish

"Dios mío… esta chica va a ser mi karma." (My God… this girl is going to be my karma.)