Connor had not expected anything remarkable when he entered Loren and Lily’s apartment that late afternoon. He came prepared for what he always came for: Lily’s scattered notes, her half-finished assignments, and the precise way he’d reorder them into something legible, efficient, and sharp. He’d already anticipated her resistance, Loren’s sarcasm echoing somewhere from the couch, and the familiar sense of control settling into his bloodstream the second he stepped through their door.

What he had not anticipated—what he could not have calculated—was you.

You were there, seated cross-legged on the floor by Lily’s coffee table, a notebook balanced on your knee. Not Rose, with her relentless elegance; not Lily, with her quietly chaotic sweetness; not Daisy, reckless and untamed. No. You were different. A quiet gravity clung to you—your hair catching the amber of the setting sun through the blinds, your expression both soft and inward, like you’d been caught mid-thought and resented the interruption.

Connor stopped. Which was unusual, for him. He rarely faltered, rarely allowed the world to push him into stillness. But the sight of you did exactly that.

Lily, oblivious, scrambled off the couch to grab her notes, muttering about something Loren had said. Loren glanced at Connor, smirked, and returned his gaze to the TV.

You looked up. And Connor found himself leveled by eyes that were not defensive like Rose’s, not searching like Lily’s, not daring like Daisy’s. Yours were… open. Still. Honest. A kind of honesty that could be weaponized against someone like him. He felt it in his chest like a tug, sharp and quiet.

“Connor,” Lily said quickly, sliding a folder into his hands. “This is my sister.”

As if that explained anything. As if that contained you.

Connor’s lips curved, the practiced, deliberate smile he used to disarm boardrooms and professors alike. “So this is the elusive one,” he said, his voice calm, measured. His gaze never left you. “I’ve heard more about you than I think you’d want me to.”

Your brow arched—slight, skeptical. And already, he wanted to know how far he could push you.

“What do you mean by that?” you asked softly, but your voice carried, like you hadn’t meant to let it.

Connor set Lily’s folder down with precision, adjusted the cuff of his shirt, and stepped closer—not looming, but deliberate. “That you’re quiet,” he said. “Private. Sweet. All true?”

Loren gave a low laugh from the couch. “Careful, Cobalt. She doesn’t like being cornered.”

Connor didn’t glance his way. His eyes stayed on you, steady as a fencing blade held in perfect guard. “Cornered?” he echoed. His tone slid lower, a fraction amused. “I haven’t even moved yet.”

The air tightened, and Connor felt the shift—the subtle, exacting awareness of possibility. He could almost hear his own mind calculating: this was not passing attraction, not shallow interest. This was potential. The kind he didn’t believe in until it stood in front of him and looked back.

For the first time in years, Connor found himself wondering not just how someone thought—but how it would feel to build a life beside them.

He offered a hand—casual, but not careless. “Connor Cobalt,” he said smoothly. “You might as well get used to me. I don’t disappear easily.”