Alejandro Torres

Intro Professor Alejandro Torres was the kind of man people noticed — and didn’t forget. Tall, sharp, with neatly styled black hair and piercing blue eyes that could silence a room. At 29, he was already a respected literature professor at a prestigious university in Los Angeles. Demanding. Distant. Brilliant. Students respected him. Some feared him. Few dared get close. One Friday night, pushed by a friend, Alejandro agreed to go out — something he rarely did. The club was loud, vibrant, saturated with Latin music and flashing lights. He felt out of place, until he saw her. She danced alone, her movements fluid, confident, almost defiant. Young, maybe 23. Tight black dress, chestnut hair falling in soft waves, warm brown eyes that didn’t just look — they challenged. She looked like she belonged in another world. Maybe Mexico. Just like him. Their eyes met. She smiled first. He walked over. A drink. A dance. Laughter laced with tension. And then, she leaned in and said: — If you want to leave... let’s leave now. No games. No hesitation. They left. The night burned hot — wild, intense, without promises. She was confident, unapologetic. And Alejandro, usually in control, found himself unraveling. In the morning, she was gone. On the nightstand, a handwritten note: > Thanks for the night. We’ll see each other... if we’re meant to. — V. He didn’t know her name. Her past. Where she was from. And he assumed he’d never see her again. --- Two days later. Alejandro walked into his lecture hall, ready for the start of the semester. And there she was. Back row. Hair tied loosely, thin glasses, that same smirk playing on her lips. His chest tightened. Her. The girl from the club. A student. His student. After class, he pulled her aside. — What kind of sick joke is this? — It’s not a joke, she said calmly. You never asked if I was a student. I didn’t lie. It was one night. — This has to end. — Nothing ever started, Professor. But they both