Sweet Romance12 min read
I Woke Up To A Stranger and Left With a Promise
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1
I reached for my phone and my hand hit something else.
"What is that?" I whispered.
A man's voice answered from the dark mattress, low and annoyed.
"Let go," he said.
I shot upright. "Who are you?" I blurted, my heart doing a silly, painful dance.
He blinked at me in the dim. "You tell me," he replied through teeth.
I saw the red on his shoulder. I felt my face grow hot. "Oh my God," I said. "I'm so—"
"Johanna," he said. "Remind me, Johanna."
My brother. Chance Bradley. Of course.
Chance had told me he'd introduce me to a handsome college friend, to help with a favor. I had said yes because he promised the friend was cute. Then last night, drunk and loud at the club, I hauled someone back. I remembered slurred flirting and stupid lines and then a memory that was worse: grabbing this man's shoulder, twisting his skin, kissing his forehead like a fool.
He looked at me like I had ruined his morning. I wanted to disappear.
"Who is your professor?" I tried to change the subject, oddly panicked. "The math professor—I'll fix it. I'll go talk to him."
He stared at me as if I'd grown a second head. "The math professor?" he echoed. "Who told you I'd need fixing?"
My brain stuttered. "Chance said—"
He cut me off. "Chance didn't say that."
I pictured Chance smiling, a liar with a promise between his teeth. My stomach dropped.
2
He moved suddenly and boxed me against the wall.
"You're not just going to wake up and walk away, are you?" he said.
"No!" I yelped and shrank.
"I don't remember anything from last night," I blurted.
He narrowed his eyes. "You were rude to me last night. You called me names."
"I called you the math demon," I admitted, ashamed. "I said mean things."
He pressed close. "And you grabbed me."
I remembered the small sting on my skin. I had done it in a drunken dare. I wanted to laugh and die at the same time.
"Listen," I said quickly. "If Chance set this up, I'll fix the exam thing. I can talk to the professor. I'll make it right."
He laughed — a brief, brittle sound. "Chance didn't set you up. He doesn't even know you."
"What?" A sharp, panicked cold blew through me. Chance had lied to me and to this man.
He looked down at me, hard. "Then who are you, Johanna?"
"I—I'm Johanna Dyer." I squinted at him and tried to be brave. "I live with my brother. He's been asking the math professor to be nicer to the students. He asked me to pretend I was a parent. I thought—"
He cut me off, slow and soft, "You thought you'd charm me into being your ally."
"Well, no one asked you to be an enemy," I snapped. Immediately, my voice trembled. I wanted to crawl into the mattress and hide.
He let out a slow breath. "Fine. Then be a decent liar. Tell your brother not to lie for you."
3
Outside, the world was ordinary. Inside, my face burned with an ember of embarrassment that felt like it could set off a small fire.
"What's your name?" I asked, because the only weapon I had left was curiosity.
"Rafael Church," he said. "I'm a professor."
My mouth opened. "A professor? You look...too young."
He smiled, small and sharp. "Believe it."
I wanted to apologize. "I'm really sorry about the hotel." I wanted to fix it. "Chance told me he'd introduce me to one of his classmates, and I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Rafael said. "Very wrong."
He pulled me off the wall and sat back down on the bed, putting me at ease with a gesture as if I were no threat. I tried to measure how much of what I had done last night was real and how much was a foggy dare.
"Look," I said, voice small. "If you want, I'll talk to whoever you like. I'll fix things."
He cocked his head. "Fix things how?"
"Help Chance." I said it before I could stop myself. "Get him to pass. Somehow. He really needs to clear this." My brother had been failing under that math professor's shadow for years. "I can arrange...I can help arrange time. I can—"
He studied me like I was a very strange math problem. "You will arrange everything, and you will also stay during the sessions."
"What? Why?" Panic made me stupid. "I won't be there to spy."
He grinned in a way that made my knees weak. "You will be the chaperone. You're the one who started this mess."
I opened my mouth and closed it. He had all the power today, after I had insulted him and tugged his hair and acted like a storm. I swallowed. "Okay," I said. "Okay, I'll stay."
"Good." He tapped his shoulder where there was a faint red mark. "You owe me."
4
I ran home like a coward, digging through my coat for warmth and excuses. Chance was waiting by the door with a grin so big he looked guilty.
"How was he?" Chance chirped. "Was he cute? Did you charm him?"
"You liar!" I hissed.
He blinked and then started laughing. "I told you he'd be weird. But, Johanna, he agreed to come help. He said he could give Chance a chance."
I stared at him. "You lied."
"Not a lie. A negotiation." He shrugged like someone who'd practiced deception at breakfast. "I told him you'd be there to talk to the professor."
"What?"
Chance's smile fell a little. He saw my face. "Look, I did say something. I panicked. My ass was on the line for graduating. I said whatever would work. I'm sorry."
"You're impossible," I said, punching his shoulder. Then I did something I didn't expect: I kissed him on the forehead. "Don't do that again."
He blinked, a little stunned. "I won't," he promised.
5
A few days later, Rafael — the professor the campus whispered about — arrived at my apartment with a stack of books and a look that said he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Chance, have a seat," he said.
Chance went pale. Ruben Kuznetsov, his friend and the real classmate he had meant to introduce me to, sat awkwardly on the couch like a lost puppy.
Rafael looked over the two of them, then at me. "So this is the arrangement. I will tutor them when I have time. You will be present. You will not act the part of a saboteur."
"Understood," I said.
He leaned closer to me before we left the room. "And Johanna?"
"Yes?" I swallowed.
"Don't touch me like that again." He touched the bruise on his shoulder lightly; for a second his face softened.
"I won't," I lied, because I'd already decided I wouldn't be able to keep that promise.
6
We started with short, sharp study sessions. Ruben and Chance muttered and flailed at equations like drowning men at first. Rafael stepped through proofs with an impatient, exact voice, pointing at mistakes and making the lines of math fit together.
I sat on the edge, watching, making flashcards and handing out tea. Sometimes Rafael would glance at me and the air would change; my heart would leap like a small animal. He was strict, but there was a tenderness in the way he corrected my brother when he panicked.
"Do you always get like this with students?" I asked him once in a low voice.
"I don't get like this," he said. "I make them get better."
He didn't smile, but his hand brushed mine when he passed me a paper, and I felt heat bloom under my skin.
7
We played a game of small provocations and equal payback. I'd press his buttons with jokes, calling him the "math demon" or teasing about his pale cheeks. He would answer with dry remarks and sudden, private kindnesses. Once, when a thunderstorm cut power to the building, he wrapped a blanket over my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're the worst professor," I said.
"You're the most impossible woman," he countered.
"Challenge accepted," I replied, and I poked his side.
He smirked and then kissed my forehead, quick and steady, with no warning. "You started it," he said.
8
Days turned into small routines. Ruben and Chance studied. I organized snacks. Rafael corrected with a patience that was fierce but fair. Sometimes the sessions ended with us three in the kitchen, laughing at a shared mistake, and I would watch Rafael's face relax in a way that felt like sunrise.
One night, after a dinner where the two boys celebrated a small victory, Rafael pulled me aside.
"Have you decided what you want?" he asked.
"Decided what?" I asked, pretending to be innocent.
"About us," he said.
I was stunned. "We haven't—"
"We have been doing this for weeks," he said. "You tease. I menace. There's more happening than a tutor and a meddling sister."
My voice was small. "You don't have to say anything. You can just... teach them."
He took my hand. It felt like an honest thing. "I don't want to be just the teacher," he said. "I want to be the person who will argue with you, who will annoy you, who will hold you when you can't stop crying."
I laughed, then cried. "That's a very specific job description."
"Is that your refusal?" he teased.
"No," I said. "Not a refusal."
9
When the make-up exam came, both boys were a mess of nerves. They paced and scribbled last-minute formulas like talismans. I stood outside the classroom until I could see them walk out with a cluster of breathless faces.
They looked at their phones. Then they hugged. Then the messages came. "They passed," Chance sobbed. Ruben grinned like he had swallowed sunlight.
I watched Rafael at the back of the hallway, leaning against a locker. When our eyes met, he smiled the little smile that had cost me so many mornings.
"Congratulations," he said.
We stood in a quiet, private island of the corridor with the buzz of campus around us.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Now we see if what we have is more than a while," he said.
10
We tried the obvious. We went on awkward dates where I teased and he pretended not to melt. We stayed in each other's proximity and discovered that the small moments — a hand on a coat, a nap leaning on a shoulder — felt like home.
Then I made a choice to travel alone for a breath. I needed space to find the part of me that didn't always apologize first. I booked a trip, leaving notes for Chance and Ruben and telling Rafael with a laugh that I was taking my vanishing act on sabbatical.
"I'll be back," I promised.
He smiled. "Bring me a magnet."
"I will," I joked.
11
On the train at midnight, I scrolled through my brother's campus forum, because old habits die slow. A post flashed up: Rafael Church was taking leave for two weeks. My chest pinched. Then, the platform at the next town opened like a small world, and Rafael stepped out from the crowd.
"Johanna," he said softly.
I felt the whole world tilt.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"Following you," he said simply.
"You followed me?" I couldn't keep the shock from my voice.
He took my hands then — rough, warm, very solid — and looked at me like someone who had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. "You were going anyway. I couldn't be sure you were going alone."
My throat hurt. "I booked this to be alone."
He smiled a little. "Then be alone with me."
12
We spent the trip like two people learning how to be together for the first time. We argued about the best way to fold a map. We shared food and silence. The comfort of him beside me made the trip gentle and strange.
On the last day, after too much coffee and a walk along a wind-blown dock, he turned to me.
"I love you," he said.
My heart did the stupid, clumsy thing and crashed into my ribs. "Then don't stop," I told him.
He laughed. "I won't."
13
Back home, life slid into a new rhythm. Rafael and I readjusted to normal: his office hours, my job, Chance's loud laughter. We were careful at first, sneaking soft touches, then bolder. The boys were fine; Ruben started dating someone else. Chance, though, started to shrink inward and become quieter around the edges.
I watched him and felt a small guilt. He had lied, messed things up, but he had also been the loud, careless brother who needed guidance. I wanted to be patient, but then something happened that I did not expect.
14
It began with a post on social media. Someone in our building shared a grainy video from a party. In it, Chance laughed and told a story — a funny story about "how he set Mom up with a 'fake parent' to get the professor to listen." He named names in the clip. The comments started to come.
"Is that true?"
"That's so mean."
"Who did he hurt?"
My stomach dropped. Someone had stitched together the embarrassing hotel night and Chance's lies into a viral joke. I watched the thread spin like a small storm. People messaged me, friends I hadn't seen in years, asking if the video was true. A stranger from campus posted a screen of the thread with a caption that made my teeth ache.
I confronted Chance.
"How could you?" I said, voice sharp and small. "Do you know what you've done?"
He looked down. "It was supposed to be funny. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think," I repeated, rising anger flaring. "You humiliated someone. You dragged real people into a joke."
"I'm sorry. It was a stupid prank," he mumbled.
"It wasn't a prank for me," I said. "It was someone's dignity."
15
The video grew wilder. Rafael's name, my name, Chance's name — all tangled in a thread that kept growing. I felt sick everytime my phone pinged.
"You need to fix this," Rafael said quietly.
"I will," I said, but the weight of it made my limbs heavy.
We tried to ignore it. We reported the post. We asked friends to stop sharing. Nothing worked.
Finally, I made a decision I never thought I could make.
16
"Chance," I told him, "we're going to the hall at the student center. Tonight. At eight."
He blinked. "Why? It's just a stupid video."
"It's not stupid to the people watching it. They think it's okay to make fun of someone. I'm going to tell the truth, publicly."
He laughed, small and nervous. "Publicly? Johanna, you can't—"
"Watch me," I said.
17
That night, the student center was more crowded than usual. Word had spread in a messy way. People came with phones out, buzzing. Students sat in rows, whispers like a wind. I stood at the front near the podium, Rafael beside me, Chance in the third row fidgeting.
My hands trembled. I swallowed. The light above me felt like it could spotlight every secret.
"Hi," I began. My voice was small, then steady. "My name is Johanna Dyer. I live in the same building as Chance. I am the woman in the video that got shared." I saw a dozen phones lift like flowers.
A hush fell.
"You saw a clip taken out of context," I said. "You saw a joke. You saw someone being mocked. What you didn't see was the hurt behind that joke."
I told the story. I said names simply. I said what happened at the club, how Chance had panicked, how I had been drunk and made foolish choices. I said why that wasn't an excuse for anyone to laugh and share and tag.
I turned to Chance. "Chance," I said, "you lied to me, and you lied to a stranger, and your lie made people laugh at me."
He looked up, his face a small, pale moon. "I'm sorry," he said.
"No," I said, not mean, but clear. "Sorry isn't enough."
18
I laid out what he had to do. "You will stand and apologize. You will explain that you created the setup to save your skin, and that you will remove the video and every copy you have. You will message everyone who shared it and tell them it was wrong. You will do it now."
The room hummed like bees. Phones recorded, but I didn't care. This was for the people who had seen the joke and thought it was fine.
Chance's legs trembled. He rose. He walked to the center and faced the crowd.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking. "I messed up. I thought it would be a prank. I didn't think about Johanna. I thought I could fix things later. I can't undo what I did. I'm sorry."
A student in the back shouted, "Why did you do it?"
Chance swallowed. "I was afraid of failing. I was scared people would laugh at me more. I made a stupid choice."
I watched as his face went from pale guilt to real shame. He tried to explain, tried to laugh, but each attempt came out wrong. The room turned on him like a tide.
"I shared it." One of Chance's friends said, "I laughed. I didn't think. I'm sorry too."
People murmured. Some eyes were cold. Some were disappointed. A few were sympathetic, because public humiliation can be a hard, raw thing even when deserved.
19
"What does he want us to do to make it right?" someone asked.
"Explain," another said.
Chance looked smaller by the second. I saw his chest heave. "I'll take it down," he said. "I'll apologize to every person I tagged. I'll go to every class and tell them I was wrong. I'll do community service for the student group."
"That's not enough," a voice snapped.
"It has to start somewhere," Rafael said, suddenly stepping forward. His voice was steady and calm. He looked at Chance without the cruelty of the crowd. "Chance, you broke a trust. Fix that trust. Learn from this."
Chance nodded until his head hurt. He spoke again, softer, "I never meant to hurt you, Johanna."
I drew in a breath and then said what needed saying. "People get to be angry," I told the room. "They should be. But this is also a moment to learn. If you're sharing something mean, stop. If you've laughed, apologize. If you're Chance, stand here and accept that you hurt someone and then change."
A few people clapped; most did not. But people put their phones away.
20
Afterwards, outside the hall in the cold, Chance leaned on the brick wall and sobbed like someone much younger than his age.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I ruined it. I made you look like a joke. I'm a jerk."
"You were a jerk," I said. "But this—this is the right place to learn. I'm not going to make you exile yourself. But the next prank, the next lie — don't do it."
He nodded into his hands. "I'll do whatever it takes."
Rafael wrapped an arm around my shoulder but kept his tone level. "And we'll help keep each other honest," he said.
I liked the idea that a person could be taught to be better in public, not simply punished alone in a cell. That night was punishment — public, painful, necessary — and it had consequences. Chance took them. He sent messages and deleted posts and stood up again each time the memory of the video flashed.
21
Months later, things settled. Ruben graduated. Chance passed his classes honestly. Rafael and I learned how to fight and forgive and say the hard truth. The memory of the hotel night became a strange, awkward legend between us — not the centerpiece anyone would laugh about, but a lesson about consent, about jokes, about what happens when people make careless choices.
Sometimes I would tease Rafael and he'd tug my braid like an old friend. "You started this war," he'd say.
"I did," I'd answer. "And you surrendered honorably."
He'd smile, and the world in that small corner would be quiet.
22
One evening, as the campus lights blinked on and the air smelled like rain, I found myself sitting beside Rafael on the old bench near the river.
"You remember the first day we met?" I asked.
"I remember you being loud," he said, smiling.
"And you being furious."
"And you being impossible."
I leaned my head on his shoulder. "I'm glad you followed me onto that train."
He kissed the top of my head. "Me too," he said. "Me too."
We sat there for a long time. The river whispered. My phone buzzed with a new message from Chance: "Thank you. I get it now."
I smiled, and Rafael squeezed my hand.
We had started as a ridiculous mistake, then as a bargaining chip, then as friends, then as something messy and real. We were still silly and stubborn. But we were honest.
And honesty, I decided, was the only true home I wanted.
The End
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