Sweet Romance16 min read
That Night at the Street Grill and the Sugar I Gave Him
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I remember the sticky, humid air the day military training finally ended. I said, "Finally," like it was a magic word. My skin still smelled like sun and sweat.
"You're darker by three shades," Daisy said with a laugh as she looped her arm through mine.
"I woke up at five every day," I replied. "Half an hour to eat. I thought I would die."
Daisy grinned and tugged me toward the street. "You cried yesterday, didn't you? I thought you were the one done for."
"I cried a little," she admitted. "But it's different. We were together for two weeks—I'll miss them."
We passed the strip where our campus met the police academy across the street. A row of food stalls sat under the lazy trees. Someone was grilling corn. Someone was selling fruit. The whole little corner smelled of smoke and spice.
"Two ears of corn, two fish tofu skewers, two enoki mushrooms, one beef skewer, and two sausages," I told the stall owner. "And two strawberry yogurts."
Daisy poked her chin. "Anything else?"
"Maybe more beef," I said.
A low, lazy voice floated over as we waited. "Want barbecued food?"
I looked up. A group of five or six guys, hair cropped short like military recruits, strolled toward the stand. They moved like old friends. One of them had a stray, careless grin and something dangerous in his eyes. Even among the clipped haircuts he stood out.
"Two more sausages," one of them called to the vendor.
He glanced up and met my gaze for a second. He had soft, almond-shaped eyes and a tiny mole at the left corner, an odd, almost wistful thing. He looked straight at me and lifted the corner of his mouth like someone checking a window.
Daisy squeezed my hand until my knuckles almost hurt. Her voice dropped, "That—he's Hugo Grant."
"Hugo who?" I asked, slow to remember.
"Hugo Grant. You know him—you went to the same high school," Daisy whispered.
"Hugo?" The name clicked into place. "Oh—yes. That Hugo. No wonder he felt familiar."
Daisy's whole face went small. "They said never cross him in high school. He was trouble."
I shrugged. Rumor had a way of growing taller than the truth. I wouldn't have believed those stories except that everyone said them so earnestly. I sipped my yogurt and smiled at the vendor.
"Here you go, girls." The vendor set down a tray with a fatherly nod. He looked like he could be our neighbor. "Enjoy."
"Thank you," I said.
We sat down with our food. A blond man with a swagger stumbled up to our table, reeking of beer. He slammed a half-empty bottle down loud enough to make me look.
He wore tight pants and cheap shoes. He wobbled, eyes glassy, and his hand found my shoulder. "Hey girl, want to switch milk for beer? Big brother buys."
Daisy froze. Her fingers tightened in my sleeve. The drunk reached to touch her arm.
"Excuse me," I said softly. I pushed his hand off. The man blinked at me and sneered.
A shout came from across the way. "That's enough."
A few young men in the police academy uniforms—short hair and serious faces—stood up. One of them moved like he didn't want to, but he moved anyway. I recognized Hugo immediately. He stood up slow, set down his cup, and his face changed into something that didn't like bullies.
The drunk lunged. I moved faster than I thought I could. I grabbed his shoulders and drove my knee upward. He dropped like a tree struck by lightning, clutching himself and howling.
Paolo Santos laughed and slapped the man's back. "She's tougher than she looks," he said.
Sterling Estrada punched the drunk's nose for good measure. The group shoved the losers away. When the smaller group had scuttled off, I held Daisy's hand and we backed toward the police academy students.
Hugo walked over to us as if he'd never left the bench. "Are you both okay?" he asked, eyes calm.
"Yes," Daisy said, still trembling. "Thank you."
Hugo gave a look that made Paolo groan. "You didn't have to do that," he murmured, meaning the fight.
"I didn't," I said. "You were there too."
Hugo smirked. "I was cheering from the sidelines."
We all laughed without meaning to.
Later, in the police academy office, the deputy instructor, Mr. Ansel Alexander, barked like a hawk, "Hugo Grant! What were you doing with those students at the stands?"
Hugo shrugged. His face stayed relaxed. "We intervened. They were harassing the girls."
"Some say you started it," Ansel said.
"It wasn't like that," Hugo said. He looked at me. "Are you Lindsay? You've come to tell the truth?"
"That would be awkward," I said, cheeks warm.
Ansel looked at me with a softness I hadn't seen before. Maybe he was fooled by my quiet. "Lindsay Taylor, you just told me there's a group fight. Who started it?"
"It was the drunk," I said. "They tried to cause trouble."
Ansel softened. "They did the right thing. They're to be commended."
Hugo's friends and he walked us to the campus gate. Paolo teased. "You owe us dinner, Hugo. You were 'cheering' too much."
Hugo tilted his head. "Call me father," Paolo said, slapping Hugo on the back.
"Stop," Hugo said with a grudging laugh. "Go eat."
We ate at the stall, and halfway through Paolo tried to claim the bill. I slipped away later to pay. It felt right. People help; people give; I wanted to honor it.
Daisy whispered when we walked away, "Hugo Grant is so handsome."
"He saved us," I said. "And he was fine when he helped, but it was the others who actually jumped in."
Hugo and I walked back slowly. He asked small questions, like how the training went. He was oddly gentle. He made no assumptions. When our talk paused, he reached into his pocket and took out a peppermint candy.
"Here," he said. "You're welcome."
I had a flash of the day in high school when I'd given a peppermint to someone in trouble during detention. "Thank you," I said. "You can keep it."
He smiled. "No. Keep it."
We were learning each other's shapes.
A few days later, our class prepared for the half-day mountain hike with the police academy new students. The plan was to pair five to ten students per group to encourage friendships. Mr. Fid el Eriksson, the well-known esports team captain whose name was Fidel, would later joke about union-of-two-colleges matchmaking, but for now we were just piling into buses.
At the meeting, our class leader, Kyle Chan, came up to me. "Lindsay, will you be with me?"
I hesitated. I had been called by another group, but then someone—Hugo—appeared and put a hand on my backpack strap. "She's booked," he said.
Kyle blinked. "Booked?"
Hugo simple said, "Reserved." He pulled me into his company. I stiffened for second and then laughed. Paolo rolled his eyes. "Hey, Hugo, don't hog her."
Hugo twisted his mouth. "She agreed. I'm not a hog."
On the climb, Paolo told stories and Sterling made jokes. The group was loud, and I liked their noise. We stopped at a small temple and each knelt to make a wish. I bought a safety charm for Zhang Costa—my brother—and a small blessing for Thomas Eaton—my other brother—who would be competing soon in an esports final.
Thomas was my youngest brother and a quiet hero. When he asked me to go, I nearly jumped. He is fierce when he plays. He called while we walked back and gave me three tickets for our seats near the stage: "Bring Daisy and bring yourself."
After the mountain, classes returned to their steady rhythm. Hugo and I exchanged messages. He asked if I would eat. I gave him a candy in return—an orange one—and teased him for being a "sideline cheerer." He told me he wasn't a crowd pleaser, just someone who didn't like trouble.
The week passed. Thomas's nationals took place in a hall full of cheers. I sat between Hugo and Paolo at the arena. The crowd roared when Thomas's team, ENG, stepped out. "ENG! ENG!" erupted like a chant. Thomas waved at us, and my chest ticked with pride.
"Look for me," he had said. I waved like an idiot. He smiled and played like light and storm at the same time. A fluke threatened to lose the match late, but Thomas pulled a brilliant move and we were champions. The lights threw hot gold over everyone's faces.
After the match, Thomas took the microphone. "I have something to say," he said, and then winked toward Daisy. The crowd knew. He called Daisy and, through her voice, asked her to be his girlfriend. She said yes. The whole hall cheered till our ribs hurt.
Later, a team captain—Fidel Eriksson—lightly teased me across dinner and offered flowers and a signature. "You were there first," he said to Thomas. Thomas laughed and nudged the captain to be quiet.
Fidel then surprised everyone. In a voice low and steady, he said, "Lindsay, I like you." The world narrowed down to his eyes and the clatter of dishes.
I froze. The table slid away beneath me. I had no plan for being loved in front of a dozen strangers, including my brother and his team. I didn't know what to say.
"Let's go," I said suddenly, cheeks burning. I left before I could refuse him or accept — anything.
Hugo stepped out with me, silent and steady. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Not now."
He surprised me by offering to walk me back. On the way, Thomas called me in a rush of celebration. "I won," he said. "You must have seen it."
"Of course," I said. "You were brilliant."
We went separate ways. The campus fell back into routine.
Then came the rumor.
It started as a tiny pinprick: a post on a student forum. Someone wrote that the campus "school flower" lived a messy private life. The post used three photos as "evidence": one of me at the arena with Thomas cheering (he had indeed waved), one of me in the office with Zhang Costa holding shopping bags (my brother had taken me shopping), and one of Hugo and me on the high stone at the sports field. The words were loud and ugly: "Lindsay's tangled with three men."
My stomach turned. It spread fast, like spilled oil. People stared at me differently at lunch. Some whispered. Others took their phones out. I felt my privacy crushed like cheap glass.
"Who could have posted that?" Daisy asked, eyes wide.
"I don't know," I said. "We did nothing wrong."
"Then why?"
I learned quickly that online lies can travel further and faster than truth.
The post made a rumor mill spin. The classmates who used to smile now tilted their heads. Someone asked me, "Is it true you are… involved with all three?"
I wanted to scream. "No. I am not like that."
But words do little against pixels.
The next week, the pressure increased. My brother Zhang Costa called from the company floor and told me not to come to the headquarters if they couldn't receive me warmly. I ignored it—pride and anger made me stubborn.
At the company entrance, a new front desk woman stopped me. She folded her arms. "Are you here to see Mr. Costa?" she asked with a raised brow.
"Yes," I said. "He is my brother."
She snorted. "No female works this company. Are you just another groupie?"
She was rude. The receptionist's tone tried to humiliate me. I stood straight and said nothing.
She used my family name like a jumper rope. She told me to go away. It was public and humiliating. A social media feed would have eaten her up, but she had a different weapon: arrogance as a shield.
I called my brother. He was calm but furious. He told his assistant, "Bring Lindsay up."
She rolled her eyes and said, "Fine," but the front-desk woman slid her phone across the counter to me, a picture already taken. The screenshot was a little too complicated—someone had posted my trip to the company and the rumor post in the same breath. My face went cold.
I decided quietly not to yield.
When I entered my brother's office, a woman sat there—Alessandra Leone—wearing low clothes and a smile like a trap. She stood to straighten her dress when she saw me. I recognized the brand of confidence that belongs to women used to getting eyes.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm—" she said, but my brother's assistant interrupted.
"Please," Zhang said, "we're meeting. Lindsay is family."
Alessandra showed a wristwatch to prove a point. "He gave this to me," she said proudly.
I held my tongue.
The situation worsened. The rumor thread kept snowballing online. The comments were vicious. Someone wrote, "She uses men for gifts." Someone wrote, "She is a chaos goddess." Others took screenshots and invented their own stories.
I kept breathing. I collected evidence, which felt wrong and slow. I asked Daisy and Jasmine Denis—my new roommate—to help. We saved screenshots and tracked the original poster. It was messy, and the wrist-scrapes of online stalking left me tired.
"Who would benefit from this?" I asked Daisy.
She shrugged. "People who want attention."
I kept thinking of Hugo and the way his eyes watched me. I thought of Thomas and his quiet joy at the arena and of Zhang Costa carrying my shopping bags like a reluctant king.
Hugo didn't laugh about it. He tightened his jaw and texted me, "Ignore them."
"How?" I replied. "They are everywhere."
He came to the library on purpose and sat beside me. "We will find the person," he said. "I don't like people pushing you."
He hated the wind of gossip like a bad weather report.
Days later, I got a tip from a friend at student union: "The thread started from a throwaway account, but someone reposted it to a bigger site. The repost was done by—" He paused. "—Corinna Sauer."
Corinna's name opened my eyes. She was a moderator on a campus gossip board and a known mean whisperer. People kept their distance from her. She smiled like a mannequin. She had reasons: she had once been embarrassed at a party with someone Hugo had rejected. Jealousy, petty pride—they build like small fires.
I rehearsed my plan until it fit. Corinna's head would be unmasked publicly.
The next day, I asked the student union for permission to hold an emergency meeting. I said nothing about Corinna. I asked for a neutral venue and five minutes at the end to make a statement.
As the speaker list closed, the room filled with standing students. Corinna came in late, exactly on schedule, with a halo of followers. She pointed at me and whispered a laugh. "What does she want?" she mouthed.
I stood up when the meeting ended. I crossed the room slowly, holding the small charm I had bought in the temple. The charm was a thin piece of twisted metal with a tiny carved symbol of safety. It was silly and sacred to me. I placed it on the table.
I said, loud enough for everyone, "This week someone posted lies. I want to show the evidence and explain. Lies hurt. They hurt more when they're made public."
People stared. Corinna smiled like she had already won.
I opened the screenshots on my phone and connected it to the projector. The forum post appeared on the screen. I pointed to the repost's timestamp and the name of the account that reposted: Corinna Sauer. Then I scrolled to show the conversation thread where she applauded and encouraged other posters.
"You see," I said, "these are not opinions. These are false claims spread with intent to harm. Someone has taken photos that were private and mixed them into a story to hurt a person. The repost on the larger site brought it to a thousand people. It did not happen by accident."
Corinna's smile faltered. She squinted at the screen. Around the room, whispers opened like fans.
I continued, "Moreover, she has been messaging people privately with the same lies. It's no accident; it's targeted harassment."
A student shouted, "Why would she do that?"
I answered, "Power. Attention. Or maybe jealousy. But the motive is less important than the harm."
I pointed to a recorded chat—a screenshot where Corinna congratulated a bored commenter for 'exposing' me. "This was forwarded to me by a friend. She wrote, 'Finally, some good tea.'"
The air thickened.
Corinna stood up like a rattled statue. "That's not—" she began.
"Corinna," Hugo said from the back, voice steady and cold. "You said those things to other people, too. You bragged."
It was Hugo who most mattered. People wanted to see me defended and he gave me a defense that didn't shout. He showed the quiet confidence of someone used to seeing people fall for spectacle. He walked to the front and held up his phone.
"You database-stalked her," Hugo said, voice low. "You used private screenshots as weapons. You do this for fun."
Corinna bared her teeth. "You can't prove I made the original post," she said.
I smiled and pulled the last card I had prepared—messages between Corinna and the front desk woman at my brother's company. The screenshots came from a woman who used to take pictures of guests and giggle. In those messages, Corinna sent the rumor to the front desk account, and the front desk sent one of my private photos to Corinna and joked about how 'easy' it was to make a story.
The room exploded into noise.
"You set me up," I said softly, pointing to the front desk woman's name on the screen, then to Corinna's message. "You told them to snap a photo to make your lie more believable. You told them to spread it."
Corinna's jaw tightened. She had been caught in the exact little web she had woven. Her followers shuffled and looked at one another.
The student union president stood. "This is serious. Unauthorized use of private images and targeted harassment. We will handle it according to the school code. Corinna, please step forward."
She didn't. Instead, she shouted, "You want a show? You want me to cry like you?"
"Stop," Hugo said. He didn't shout. He did something colder. He asked the union to call in a staff member—Ansel Alexander and the dean both came into the room.
"Corinna," Ansel said, voice like a noose. "We will review the evidence. But the student union isn't a court. If you are responsible, you should publicly apologize and remove the posts."
Corinna's face changed from anger to fear, then a sharper denial, then to panic.
I had expected a school reprimand. I had not expected the scale of justice that followed.
The dean called an emergency assembly. We didn't have to wait long. Corinna's posts were archived and the screenshots were circulated. The dean read the charges out loud: "Identified as the party who instigated and reposted false statements; unauthorized publication of private images; harassment and attempted defamation."
When Corinna was escorted to the stage, hundreds of students crowded the hall. Phones were up and faces were bright with curiosity. I stood behind the reporters and watched her walk, shoulders tight.
The dean asked her to speak.
She opened her mouth and tried denial—then realization that the network of evidence closed around her. "I—" she started. "It's not what it looks like."
"Look at this," I heard Daisy whisper. "She looks like a puppet."
Then came the punishment. The dean explained the school's policy and called the campus security office for their sanctions. They were not enough. The students wanted public accountability. The dean, feeling the pressure, allowed a forum for judgment that was both formal and public.
Corinna was asked to retract publicly and apologize to me. She refused.
Then, under the dean's watch, the campus called for her to make restitution by organizing a public forum on online harassment—led by me and the union—where she would stand and listen. If she refused, the school would escalate matters to local authorities and the administrative sanctions would include suspension.
She refused again.
At that point, the dean pronounced: "Because you have refused to take responsibility and because your actions have harmed another student, Corinna Sauer is suspended for three weeks, must publicly apologize in writing and in person at the chapel, and must remove all online posts. If she does not comply within twenty-four hours, we will forward the case to the local cyberpolice."
The crowd watched. Corinna's face shifted through a thousand colors—pride, panic, anger, a long denial. Then she fell.
"You want me to—" she said. Her voice hitched. She had no brave one-liner left. She had never expected consequences so visible.
She began to crumble right there on the stage. First a denial, then a fury, then a plea.
"You're ruining my life!" she wailed. "You can't make me kneel!"
Her followers had drifted away slowly. The applause was not for me; it was for the end of her arrogance. Some students snapped pictures. A few recorded. She edged toward shame.
"Do you apologize?" the dean asked.
Her mouth trembled. She swallowed.
"No," she hissed. "I—" then her voice shortened to a whisper. "I didn't mean—"
She tried bargaining. "I'll take it all down. Please. I'm sorry. Don't—"
Her face broke. She began to cry with that sharp, alarmed sound of someone who thought they could get away with cruelty and then discovered the world refused to stand for it. For the first time, those who had been her allies looked away.
She knelt, then sat, as if she had lost everything. Her shoulders shook. Her followers glanced at their phones. Some taped her apology on the spot and posted it.
She begged—first to be spared suspension, then to be allowed to keep popular roles. "Please," she mouthed. "Please."
No one went to help. People stood at the doors and filmed. Someone clapped when the dean announced the suspension would stand. The scene faltered into humiliation and small, stinging justice.
When it was done, I walked up slowly. I didn't speak. I didn't need to.
Corinna's reaction chart had been the one I'd hoped to see: a slow fall from arrogance, a denial that dissolved into fear, then a plea for mercy. The crowd's reaction had been the same: stunned, then murmurs, then a general sense of relief. People took selfies. People muttered that justice was harsh but deserved.
Later, some asked if they had gone too far. I thought about it all night—the begging, the kneeling, the cameras—and felt the weight of public punishment myself. I felt a piece of shame watching Corinna crumble, but I had also watched my name be thrown about like dirt.
She had been loud and cruel in private. She had used private photos to build a lie. People should be accountable. That knowledge kept me steady.
The dean's decree was firm: Corinna must work with the campus union to organize seminars, to clean up the online trail, and to apologize publicly for the harm she'd caused. The front desk woman was reprimanded, too; she would be reported to Human Resources and required to make a public written apology and pay a fine to charity. The posts were removed or timestamped with the apology.
I learned something strange that day: public punishment is brutal to watch, even when it is fair. I also learned I wasn't as fragile as the rumor suggested. The sugar Hugo had accepted once felt like a small thread connecting me to people who would stand if I needed it.
People cheered for Thomas again when he came to campus a few days later. Thomas held a tiny trophy and hugged me.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "And for setting this right."
I hugged him back, and for a heartbeat the world felt kind.
"Thanks to Hugo, too," Thomas added. "He didn't have to do any of this."
Hugo only shrugged and bit into another candy I handed him. "It was small," he said.
After the scandal faded, the worst of the whispers stopped. Corinna was gone for three weeks. The front desk woman kept her job but had to attend classes about workplace ethics and assuage complaints. People still asked about the rumor, but the answer was simple: a lie had been posted and it had been undone.
Life returned, stitched back together by apologies and glassy, awkward smiles. Hugo and I grew closer by small things: an extra candy, a water bottle, a walk home, a shared joke about Paolo's dramatic way of saying "Dad." Thomas and Daisy were now together. Daisy had the soft brightness of someone in the new petals of love. My brother Zhang Costa returned one weekend with the strange coolness of a man who had important meetings elsewhere.
One night in late autumn, Hugo walked me to the temple where I had left the charm. The light was low, and the carved wood smelled of incense. He pulled a thin leaf from a branch and handed it to me.
"Keep it," he said. "So you remember this night—when we were just two kids and a candy."
I laughed then. "You remember the peppermint you took from me during detention in high school?"
He smiled, close enough that I could see the little mole at the corner of his eye. "I never forgot."
I tucked the little leaf into my pocket and kept the charm around my neck.
Weeks later, when everything finally calmed, I visited the small food stall where the vendor barked orders like an old friend. I bought two skewers and a yogurt and sat. A kid came up and pretended to be the drunk, and Paolo pretended to punch him. We all laughed.
Hugo came late that afternoon, grin crooked, hands in his pockets.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. He took the orange candy I offered and popped it into his mouth. "Thanks," he said.
The sugar dissolved with a soft crack. It tasted like victory and like small, honest things. I put my hand to my chest, felt the little charm, and thought, I survived rumor and shame and an ugly internet. I kept my small dignity.
"Who would have thought," I said, "that candy would mean so much."
Hugo took his time to answer. "Some things—" he said—"are just for us."
We walked back into the campus, and the trees let their gold fall. Everyone had returned to their versions of normal. Outside, someone was grilling corn, and the smoke cut into the sundown like a soft knife.
We walked quietly. My phone buzzed. Another message, but this time it was from Thomas: "Champions and us. Dinner tonight?"
"Yes," I replied. I turned and saw Hugo looking at me. "Are you coming?"
He nodded. "For the sugar and for the rest."
That night we ate and laughed and let the old small things be big enough.
The End
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