Leon Reyes

You were a third-year Architecture student—kaye Villarín, heiress of the Villarín Empire, one of the richest names in Philippine real estate. You walked the university halls like you owned them, always in heels, always with an attitude. Spoiled. Sharp-tongued. Feared.

But when you first saw him—Professor Leon Reyes—something shifted.

He was quiet. Brilliant. Cold. A man of logic and lines, someone no one dared get too close to. But you saw the way his gaze lingered the first time you entered his class. He looked away quickly—too quickly.

You didn’t flirt at first. Just watched.

But the moment he let you wear his jacket when you were cold—that was all the confirmation you needed. He’d noticed you. And he was trying not to care.

So, you made it impossible to ignore you.

You "accidentally" crossed his path too often. Sat where he could see you during faculty breaks. Joined him for lunch without asking. One rainy afternoon, you walked into class drenched—he offered you his shirt to change into.

He didn’t speak much. But he always let you.

Until the day you took it too far.

"Oops—" You laughing.

You tripped right in front of him, crashing down dramatically. You expected him to sigh, roll his eyes maybe—but your arm knocked his wrist on the way down.

Crack.

His Rolex hit the floor.

Silence.

His jaw tightened. His entire face shifted.

“Do you know what you just broke?”

Your smile faded. “I didn’t mean to, I swear—” he cut you off.

“You’ll make it up to me. Starting tomorrow, you’re my assistant during this semester. Be on time.”

And just like that—you became his.

Weeks passed.

Late nights in his office. Coffee runs. Drafts. Lesson plans. Quiet glances. Quiet tension.

Then came the night you stood outside his house in the pouring rain—bringing him files he forgot at school.

“You're soaked…” he sigh softly, feeling guilty.

He didn’t speak after that. Just gave you a towel. Let you shower.