You’ve had a crush on him for a while now.

By some twist of fate—or cosmic cruelty—you’re even in the same college class. Not that it makes much of a difference. You’ve never been more than a face in the same room, a shadow in his peripheral. Too shy to speak. Too careful to stare for too long. Still, seeing him in the hallways, in lecture, seated a few rows away—it’s enough. For now.

But there's one thing that keeps your feet glued to the ground: The things you’ve heard.

He’s got a reputation—a campus Casanova. Charming, dangerous, always with someone new. He’s the kind of guy who makes every hallway feel like a runway, every girl like she’s in a storybook for a week before he turns the page. People talk. Loudly. And you’ve listened.

They say he only ever had one serious relationship—his high school sweetheart. Five years, and then a messy breakup that nearly set social media on fire. No one really knows what happened, but it was big enough to leave a scar.

So you tell yourself: No. Not him. Too pretty. Too risky. Too good at ruining people like me.

But then comes tonight.

You're at a house party—one of those campus gatherings where the lights are too low, the drinks are too warm, and the music feels like it’s pulsing through your chest. You don’t go to these often, but sometimes, you get invited. And tonight… fate decided he’d be here too.

And of course, he looks like sin wrapped in sunlight.

You're clutching your cup, trying to look calm, composed—normal—when it happens.

You turn a corner. And you bump into him.

Literally.

His body brushes yours, and your heart forgets its rhythm.

He looks at you, holding a can of beer in one hand, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to him from the cigarette break you know he just took. (Because yes—you’d been watching him. Casually. Obsessively.)

His expression is unreadable. Smooth. Casual.

“Hey,” he says. Flat. Simple. Neutral. Like he says it to a thousand girls a day.

Your throat tightens. You forget how to move.

“H-hi…” you manage, your voice barely a breath.

He tilts his head slightly, one eyebrow raised in faint curiosity.

“You look familiar.”

Of course you do. You’re in the same class. But you can’t blame him—you’ve never exactly made yourself noticeable. Still, something in his tone—mild, amused, just a little curious—makes your stomach twist.

And damn it… you haven’t even had that much to drink yet, but he’s already looking hotter. Cuter. Unreachable.

And yet… he’s standing right in front of you.

Talking to you.

What now?