Sweet Romance11 min read
The Bet, the Slippers, and the Night I Shouted "I Like You"
ButterPicks12 views
"I posted a joking little sad note and my calculus professor offered to introduce me to his son."
That was how absurd my week began.
"Valeria, you can't be serious," Miriam said, poking my phone as if it were fragile. "You posted 'poor little me, no one loves me' and he actually replied?"
"Yes." I was still staring at the message. "Professor Paul actually messaged me. He said, 'Valeria, my son is nice. I'll push you together.'"
Miriam slapped the table. "You mean Paul Crawford? Our calculus professor?"
"Yes. The same man who naps while lecturing and then expects us to solve his exam in five minutes." I laughed because my brain wouldn't let the panic in properly. "He sent a thumbs-up and a kibitzing emoji."
"Are you kidding me? That's amazing," Fiona said, reaching for a cookie.
"I haven't even graduated yet," I whispered. The thought of being matched with a grown man—someone who should be in the same bracket as my parents—made my stomach do tiny revolutions. "I'm a sophomore."
"I think he's joking," Miriam shrugged. "Or he likes a little drama."
"Paul replied again." I tapped the screen. "'Successful match. Don't fear your degree.'"
Miriam looked at me like I had just won the lottery. "That is not a joke. That is a setup."
"Why me? Out of thirty students, why me?" I typed, the question trembling.
"'Split the cake with me, and I'll tell you later,' he wrote back." The emoji made it even more ridiculous.
The next day an account popped into my friend list: "Sent on a mission: meet-up." The name on it read Cosmo Dixon.
"Hello, I'm Cosmo Dixon, 28, investment banking," the first DM said.
I blinked. "Hello, I'm Valeria Fletcher, 20, sophomore."
He asked to meet the next day. "Men are direct," I muttered. "Is that how dating is supposed to be?"
I went because part of me had already done the math: help from the professor might mean help on tricky calculus topics. I had been a liberal-arts girl who always hit a wall when calculus popped up on the syllabus. A friend had once explained the unspoken campus economy: a favor from a professor sometimes opens walls in exams. I told myself the arrangement only meant a little quid pro quo.
When I walked into the coffee shop outside campus, Cosmo was already there: tall, with an all-business posture, navy suit, and a pair of glasses with thin golden rims. He looked like someone who read financial reports for fun.
"Valeria?" he asked, standing.
"Cosmo," I said, smiling like someone who had rehearsed a thousand improbable futures. "Hi."
He sat, ordered black coffee, and folded himself into the chair like he belonged in boardrooms. In truth, I was measuring everything about him: the lines of his face, the length of his fingers, the way he stirred his coffee.
"So," he said. "Your professor mentioned you sleep in his class."
I nearly choked on the iced tea I had just sipped. "That's—" I tried to answer smooth. "That's because I'm up late studying."
He tilted his head. "Is that so?"
"Yes," I lied easily. "Isn't it biblical? Late-night study equals morning nod-off."
He smiled faintly. "I see."
I stammered. "Are you being pressured to do this? Is your father—"
"My father thinks matchmaking is an art," Cosmo said, raising an eyebrow. "But I volunteered."
"You did?"
"Yes."
Then he said, casually, "Would you be my girlfriend?"
The world froze a degree. "What?"
He smiled that small private smile. "If you don't mind."
My mouth went fuzzy. I liked to imagine big, romantic things, but I also liked practical ones. "Do you have air conditioning? Because it's summer and my dorm fan is a squeaky relic."
Cosmo blinked. "I have central air."
I grinned, which made him look amused. "Then we have an agreement."
He handed me a key to his door that night like it was a ticket to a museum. "When you come, let me know. I'll prepare slippers."
When I reached his apartment for the first time, there was a small pair of rabbit slippers at the door.
"They're yours," he wrote in a message the next minute.
I smiled so hard my teeth hurt. I slipped them on like they were a crown.
"I won't lie," I told him, exploring his sleek living room. "I came partly to study calculus."
He flipped through my notebook and pointed at an equation. "This step is wrong."
"You... you can help me?" I asked, surprised.
He explained without the arrogance you expect from someone like him. He explained like he was showing me a trick. I pretended I already knew everything and asked a few bait questions. He kept answering patiently.
"You're better at bluffing than I thought," he said.
"You're better than I thought," I countered.
We fell into a pattern. I visited, studied, and sometimes he actually cooked. He liked old cartoons at odd times. He had a drawer of blind-box figurines that he opened with a secret smile. He had a work life as restless as anyone's, but when he was home he was Warm Place Cosmo. I started to like him more than I expected.
One night on a walk by the river, I decided I'd had enough of playing small.
"Did you ever like someone before?" I asked, leaning on the rail.
"Yes," he said. "Why do you ask?"
I took a breath. "Because I want to know what it looks like when you love someone."
He looked at me the way someone studies a map. "What do you see when you are in love?"
"I shout it into the night." I did it because I wanted something brave and real. I shouted, "Cosmo Dixon, I like you."
A few passersby glanced over, smiling. Cosmo's eyes softened. He pulled me close, kissed me—soft and quick, with a minty breath—and then released me.
"Why do you like me?" he asked when we stopped.
"Because you are kind," I said. "Because you are patient with my jokes. And because you make me want to be better."
He mulled that over. "What if I'm not as kind as you think?"
"You won't be perfect," I said. "Neither will I."
"Then let's be imperfect together." He took my hand and squeezed.
I set myself a ridiculous goal then because he had teased me once about scoring 500 on an English test. "If I get 500, we will be official."
He smirked. "Make it harder."
"Five hundred," I insisted. "It's my number."
He chuckled and agreed. It became my reason to study harder than ever. I talked to Professor Paul about calc problems, joined study groups, and hired a senior tutor. I was focused, burning late into quiet nights.
The first public hiccup came at the gate of campus where an old boyfriend stepped in front of me, arms wide, like a man clutching a last chance. Colby Santoro.
"Val," he said, voice too sweet. "We can try again."
"Colby," I said. My chest ached. "I said no."
"You always run off," he sneered at my back. "You were using me."
"Stop," I snapped. "I am not—"
Cosmo appeared then, looking like he always did: composed. He stepped toward Colby. "Is there a problem here?"
Colby grinned in a way that meant he was trying to anger me. "Look at you, Valeria. Playing games with rich boys now? You sell out fast."
Heat rose in my face. "I thought you and I were done," I said.
"You were cheap then, cheap now," Colby taunted. "You always wanted a shortcut."
Cosmo's hand tightened on my arm. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. "Leave her alone."
Colby scoffed and shoved Cosmo. "Who are you to tell me anything?"
That shove was a spark. Cosmo responded quickly and cleanly—he blocked, stepped forward, and delivered a slap across Colby's face. The world slowed.
"Hey!" I said, ready for chaos.
Colby staggered, fingers at his cheek. "You hit me?"
Cosmo's voice was even. "I defended her. Now walk away."
Colby hissed. "You'll regret this, Dixon." He stormed off, pushing by students who gaped.
Later, after the skirmish, my friends said I had it made. "Boyfriend saves the day. Classic," Miriam said.
I felt shaken. I also felt a fierce pride.
Weeks passed, and I kept studying. The night before the big test my hands shook while I typed notes. Cosmo sent me a voice message: "Relax. You did everything you could. Sleep."
I slept, and the test was a blur. When the score arrived, I stared as the numbers appeared: 532.
I whooped out loud alone in my room. Cosmo called in a breathless voice, and I squealed. "You owe me a dinner," I declared.
"You earned a dinner," he corrected.
We celebrated in small ways—dumplings at a night market, a silly movie, and popcorn in his living room while he wore the rabbit slippers.
Then came something I had not expected. A rumor, a whisper that grew teeth. Colby, the ex, started appearing at campus functions, making snide comments. He took to telling mutual friends that I had used money to get ahead. He said I had only pretended to study.
I tried not to care. But rumors spread like spilled coffee: impossible to clean, staining.
On the night of a campus festival, where booths and lights made the quad bright, Colby decided to be cruel in public. He came up to our group where Cosmo was casually talking to a graduate student, and shoved his way between us.
"Look who it is," he announced loud enough for many people to look. "Val the gold-digger. Tell me, did you buy your grades?"
A ring of students formed. Colby smiled like a man enjoying the fruits of mischief. "Oh, and look—this big spender's boyfriend is just a hired shell. Does he even notice? He only kept you for a while, right?"
Heat was prickling up my neck. I had had enough. I pushed forward. "Colby, stop."
Colby laughed. "Or what? You'll cry and get another sponsor to cry with?"
That was the last straw.
I stepped onto a low stage near the information booth. "Everyone, can I have your attention?" I shouted.
People turned. Cosmo looked at me, puzzled. Colby smirked.
"Colby has a message for me," I said, voice steady. "He says I'm a gold-digger. He says I bought my scores. He says I used people."
People murmured.
I pulled my phone out and opened a folder titled 'ColbyProof.' It felt theatrical, and I wanted it that way. I hit play and echoed through the speakers the screenshots of messages he had written—messages from him asking for favors from another girl while he was courting me, texts where he boasted about his conquests, voice memos where he mocked our classmates behind their backs.
I posted the screenshots to my story and projected a few onto a portable screen. "This is Colby texting to someone else—while he was dating me—to be his girlfriend again. These are photos of him at parties holding hands with other girls. These are messages where he calls me 'not worth his time'." I let the words hang for a beat.
Colby's face went pale. He reached for my phone and tried to yank it away. "Give it back," he hissed.
A dozen students pulled out their phones and began recording. "Leave her alone," someone shouted from the crowd.
I showed a final message on the screen: Colby had messaged a mutual friend, "If she studies hard enough I'll roast her later." His childish cruelty was on display for everyone to see.
"You told people I bought my score," I said slowly. "But here are your messages telling other girls to keep me quiet, and here is a picture of you with another girl the week we dated. You called me cheap. You cheated. Why should anyone trust your story?"
He had a thousand denials, but his voice was uneven now. "It's not—"
"So it's true." I felt the room pressing in, but my hands didn't shake. "You cheated. And you lied."
Students began to jeer. "Shame!" "Liar!" Cosmo looked at me, jaw clenched. He walked up beside me and put a steady hand on my shoulder.
Colby finally noticed the change of tide. "You staged this," he spat. "You wanted attention."
"Is exposing a liar seeking attention?" I asked.
He tried to leave but students blocked his path. "Don't you have dignity?" someone called.
Colby's bravado cracked. He stopped fighting and began to plead. "Please, it's not what it looks like. I didn't mean to—"
His voice thinned into awkward whispers as people recited his messages back to him. Someone pulled up a video of him flirting with another girl in a café. Another friend stepped forward and said, "Colby told me he never cared and that he'd use girls until someone stayed."
Colby crumpled. "You're ruining me."
"You're ruining trust," Cosmo said softly.
Colby sank down on the curb and planted his face in his hands. He tried to smile when people recorded, then started to beg: "I can fix it. I'll tell them I was wrong."
But the crowd wouldn't let him off. Girls who had been polite to him now spat words. "You cheated on her," one woman said. "You lied to us all," another added. Teachers who were at the festival shook their heads. Someone called the student newspaper to document the scene.
Colby's reactions shifted: first shocked, then angry, then desperate. He tried to blame others. "That's not true!" he shouted. "They edited my messages!"
"Prove it then," a bystander yelled. "Show us the whole conversation!"
When he couldn't, the crowd grew louder and angrier. A friend of mine said, "We all remember how you treated people." Her voice was steady, and people nodded.
Colby stood, knees trembling. He tried to make his way back through the crowd, but a chorus of "Shame!" followed him. Someone played back his own words to him from the recording, and he flinched. He begged for forgiveness, voice cracking, but the mood had turned. People recorded his breakdown. Some clapped. Some booed. Some whispered, "I always guessed."
By the end of the night he sat on a low wall, head in his hands while Cosmo and I walked away. My legs felt like jelly. Miriam squeezed my hand. "You were brave," she said.
Cosmo's fingers interlaced with mine. "You didn't deserve that." His voice was calm.
I had wanted a public rebuttal to the whispers. I had wanted people to see the truth, to know that Colby was the one who had been false. When the dust settled, the campus viewed him differently. He had to answer calls from parents, from friends, from the student paper. Colby's name became a cautionary tale, and his social life frayed.
After that, things slowed but also changed. My relationship with Cosmo deepened because we had confronted darkness together. He was still busy, but he learned to message faster when I was nervous. He surprised me with a little gift—one more rabbit figure for my collection—a tiny sign he remembered what made me smile.
Years passed in a warm blur. I moved in with Cosmo near the end of my undergraduate years. We kept small rituals: morning texts, a weekend grocery run, blind-box nights. He guarded our small life with a fierce quiet.
On the day of graduation, I wore a cap that felt much too heavy and a dress that Cosmo said made me glow. I watched other students grin and toss caps. Cosmo stood by the edge of the crowd, hand in pocket, looking as if he could barely believe I had grown this much.
"Do you remember when you asked me why I liked you?" he asked after the ceremony, voice near my ear.
"I remember," I said.
"You shouted at the river," he smiled. "That's when I knew. You had fire."
We were married a few years later. We had a daughter who looked like both of us and carried Cosmo's precise mouth and my wide eyes. I finished school, became a teacher, and lectured on literature to bright, messy students who sometimes slept in my class. It made me laugh—the circle closed. I sometimes caught myself glancing at their notebooks and thinking of Paul Crawford and the rabbit slippers.
Years later I asked Cosmo, late at night, when the baby slept and the city hummed outside the window, "When did you fall in love with me?"
He stroked the top of her head and said, "When you shouted for me by the river. And when you wrote that silly note in the blind-box letter about slowing down time. I read it and thought, 'I want more of this.'"
I kissed him. "You changed me."
"No," he said. "You taught me to care about small things."
Once, in a long gentle conversation, he admitted, "When I stood up for you at the gate, I felt something like ownership—no, not ownership—the wish to keep you safe. That turned into wanting to be the person who could be around you."
"Then you became that person," I said.
He smiled, rabbit slippers sticking out from under the blanket. "We made each other better. You made it loud and warm. I made it steady."
We laughed. Outside, somewhere on the campus a boy and a girl shouted something at the river. I thought of my younger self: foolish, brave, loud.
If anyone ever asked me if a careless post on a social app could change your life, I'd say yes. If anyone asked if taking a risk to shout who you are was worth it—if risking humiliation in public to say "I like you" can bring someone to stand up for you—I'd say, with my whole chest, "Yes."
And when people asked me about Colby, I usually shrugged. "He learned the hard way," I'd say. "Sometimes 'public' is the only place liars can be shown for who they are."
I kept the rabbit slippers. They sat by the door for years like a little flag of a beginning. Once, at a crowded reunion where a thousand students circled like planets, a former classmate smirked and said to her friend, "She really lucked out, huh?"
Miriam elbowed her and called back, "Luck didn't write those exam scores."
Cosmo caught my hand under the table. "You turned a bet into a life," he whispered.
I leaned my head on his shoulder and smiled. "You turned a bet into a home."
The End
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