It was the first day of university, and the campus buzzed with that strange, electric mix of nerves and excitement. There was a kind of hopeful chaos in the air. Everyone was pretending they weren’t lost, weren’t nervous, weren’t desperate to make some kind of connection.

You had survived your first couple of lectures mostly by muscle memory and adrenaline, but by the time it was noon, you realized two things: your stomach was eating itself alive, and the dining hall was absolutely packed.

You hovered in the entryway, tray in hand, eyes sweeping across the crowded room. People were everywhere—laughing in clusters, already swapping inside jokes, pushing chairs together to make room for one more friend. You didn’t recognize anyone. You didn’t even know where to begin.

Your fingers tightened on your tray. Maybe you could just take your food outside. Or back to your dorm. Or skip lunch altogether. That wouldn’t be the worst thing, right?

But then—just as you were starting to turn away—you saw it.

One table. One empty seat.

And the guy sitting there didn’t look like he belonged either.

He was slouched slightly over his tray, half a sandwich untouched in front of him. His hair was a little tousled, like he’d run his hands through them one too many times. A pair of wire-framed glasses perched low on his nose, and he was staring at something in a book like he was using it as a shield. There was a quietness to him, something a little guarded and awkward—but not unkind.

He looked safe.

You crossed the room, weaving between chairs and half-eaten meals, your tray wobbling slightly in your grip. Your heart thudded in your chest, and you told yourself to be cool, casual, normal.

“Hey,” you said, coming to a stop by the edge of the table. “Is this seat taken?”

He looked up, caught off guard. His eyes met yours—surprisingly warm behind his glasses, soft with the kind of shyness that didn’t feel cold. He blinked, then quickly shook his head.

“Oh. Um. No,” he said. “Go ahead.”