As a half-American, cheerful, and irrepressibly casual optimist prone to mood swings, Matthew forgave me quickly for humiliating him at the library entrance. At parting, he pressed a generous handful of condoms into my palm and drew me into a warm embrace. His gaze lingered on me, the faint crinkles at the corners of his narrowed eyes deepening, and I was certain the infectious smile curving his lips was entirely sincere.

By contrast, the tall, blond, blue-eyed friend beside him—ever since that brief, understated chuckle—had stood quietly at a careful arm’s length. He measured the distance between us with surgical precision, and when our eyes met, he merely inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. In his gaze lay that distinctly British chill, a cool, restrained aloofness that made my skin prickle, cloaked in a courteous detachment that neither invited nor rebuffed.

I doubted he was the same man with the faintly shy Oxford accent on the phone, though I was certain his English was equally immaculate. I had seen him at a few parties and student gatherings before, but I could not recall ever hearing him utter a full sentence to me.

Between the two, my interest naturally tilted toward the former.

Matthew explained that, as a foreign national holding an American passport, he had to raise his attendance rate above eighty percent to avoid losing his visa. Thus, he *had* to break up with me—so he would not be tempted into frivolity and neglect his studies. In that one respect, I shared his concern.

Absurd as the excuse was, it did fit his peculiar brand of logic. Looking into the earnest pale green of his eyes, I forgave him reluctantly—and resolved, for now, to spare the anonymous, unseen “friend” on the other end of that call.

What happened afterward lies blurred in my memory, surfacing only in fragments: the darkness of a taxi, the dim hush of an elevator, the pitch-black of a bedroom.

When I awoke, I was curled on the floor of my room, my baseball cap askew over my brow. The curtains hung half-closed, sunlight streaming through a slit and warming the floor. I lifted my gaze—

An exam today.

Now that I was single again, I decided it was time to catch up on my neglected studies. With two or three essays already past their deadlines, I resolved to get through the exam first and then head to the library.

The few examinations required for a first-class degree were not particularly daunting; it was the attendance requirements and overdue papers that vexed me.

Half an hour later, dressed and in a rush to leave—

The dormitory elevator broke down.

It groaned to a halt with a laboured rattle, trapping me inside with a pale-skinned stranger.

“I live on the first floor. Which floor are you on?”

Perhaps admitting I was too lazy to climb even a single flight was not the wisest way to start a conversation—though even in the dim light of the stalled elevator, I could wager she looked surprised.

The gloom made it impossible to read her expression, which only sharpened my sense of unease. After three years of psychology and behavioural science, reading gestures and movements had become second nature to me.

“Seventh floor,” she replied at last, as if to break the awkward silence.

I glanced at my phone—no signal.

“Wonderful. My biology exam is about to be ruined.” I tossed the device into my bag, the muffled beeps of its dying battery still audible through the leather.

She gave what sounded like a shrug, fabric rustling softly.

“My first date with my new boyfriend went the same way,” she said.

Leaning back against the mirrored wall, I felt my jaw tighten.

“I broke up yesterday.”

Idiot—this isn’t some competition for “most tragic backstory,” and there’s no prize for winning sympathy.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

My misfortune seemed to pique her curiosity; she shifted subtly closer.

Over the next hour and a half, our conversation meandered in circles, revolving mostly around that eternal subject of women—boyfriends. Her name was Stella, and according to her, a brown-haired, blue-eyed American had knocked on her door by mistake last night. Two hours later, he was her new boyfriend.

The story—of a one-night encounter blossoming into lasting intimacy—delighted her. I even caught the glint of lip gloss as she smiled in recollection. About fifteen minutes later, noises stirred outside.

The sluggishly efficient F City repairmen took an hour to pry open the doors. At the first glimpse of fluorescent daylight, I nearly wept in relief—until another figure appeared behind the workman, and my mood collapsed in an instant.

Without so much as glancing at me, Matthew brushed past the protesting building manager, vaulted into the elevator, and wrapped Stella in a crushing embrace.

…Well, that wasn’t amusing anymore.

No one—*no one*—gets to find a new lover within a day of breaking up with me.

Matthew’s display was a punch square to the face. And just as I was about to lose all reason to fury, another figure stepped in with unhurried ease. His height all but blocked out the light.

It was the man I had seen yesterday at the library—Matthew’s so-called “best friend.”

He recognised me first, turning his head slightly, lips pressed in a restrained line, the hem of his impeccably tailored khaki trench coat brushing just above his knees.

I had to reclaim the upper hand at once—by any means necessary. Stepping past Matthew, who had yet to notice my presence, I closed the gap between us and, with an audacity that startled even me, asked the aloof young man before me:

“Will you sleep with me?”

“…No.”

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before regaining his composure. In a voice cool enough to graze the freezing point, he quietly extinguished every spark of my hope.

Yet, just before his expression settled into that perfect mask, there flickered—no more than half a second—a subtle shift, almost imperceptible, but enough for me to know without doubt: he was lying. He would, in fact, be more than willing to sleep with me. But that was not the point…

My eyes widened in disbelief.

It was not merely the first time anyone had so bluntly refused my invitation; it was something far more striking. I knew that voice—that distinctive timbre, that precise, polished accent—

He was the “Oxford accent,” reserved and faintly shy, from the other end of the telephone.