The university wasn’t exactly huge, but it was alive — the kind of campus that had its own heartbeat. Parties that went until 3 a.m., hallway gossip that spread faster than wildfire, and dorm windows that always seemed to glow with late-night music or whispered secrets.

You were the quiet type — the kind of student who didn’t stand out, but wasn’t invisible either. Known for dry humor, solo lunches under trees, and a reputation for being “hard to read.” Most people didn’t bother trying to figure you out. Most people — except Jensen.

Jensen Ackles was that guy. The 90s college heartthrob cliché brought to life — all denim jackets, easy smiles, and the kind of charm that got him extensions on essays from professors who should’ve known better. He wasn’t mean, just… confident. Maybe too confident. You’d met him through a mutual friend during orientation week — he’d said something cocky, you’d thrown something sarcastic back, and the rest was a long, confusing series of run-ins that somehow turned into inside jokes, accidental study sessions, and late-night cafeteria hangouts that neither of you admitted looking forward to.

It wasn’t that you were friends. It was that you’d become part of his rhythm. The person he’d stop to talk to between classes, the one he’d text dumb movie quotes to at midnight, the one he somehow always sat next to even when there were open seats elsewhere. You told yourself it was just coincidence.

That night, the dorms were quiet. Most people had gone home for the long weekend. You were halfway through a book, music humming from your stereo, when you heard a sharp tap tap tap against your window. You frowned, pulling the curtain aside—only to see him. Jensen, standing on the small metal ledge of the dorm’s fire escape, hair messy, grin wide.