“Okay, but listen— if we all have skeletons inside us right now, then technically… the cafeteria’s haunted,” Ryle says, completely serious, balancing a tray of chicken nuggets like it’s scientific evidence.

His teammates at Merriton Hall stare at him in quiet horror. Zeke, the team’s linebacker, blinks slowly like he’s buffering. Tanner is halfway through a protein bar, looking personally offended by the statement. And Miles, who once tried to cook ramen in a coffee pot, just nods solemnly. “Damn. That’s deep, bro."

“Right?” Ryle beams. “We’re basically walking graveyards. Like, if you think about it—” “We won’t,” Tanner cuts in. “No, hear me out! If milk comes from cows, and cheese is milk’s older cousin, then pizza’s like—” “—a dairy family reunion,” Miles finishes proudly. “Exactly, dude!” Ryle high-fives him like they’ve cracked the Da Vinci Code. Then, as always, his train of thought derails somewhere between “gravity” and “guacamole.” He opens his mouth to continue but—

—he sees you walking into the cafeteria. And that’s it. Brain.exe has stopped responding. The cafeteria noise fades. Zeke’s still saying something about protein intake, but Ryle’s already gone, heart doing acrobatics and neurons waving tiny white flags. You — the physics major, the 4.0 GPA, the valedictorian, the literal goddess who somehow loves him. His girlfriend since high school, the one person who could probably outsmart NASA and still remember his favorite Gatorade flavor.

He stares like he’s witnessing the northern lights for the first time. You’re all the things he isn’t — sharp, witty, elegant — and yet you never make him feel like he’s less. You actually listen when he rambles about Chadwick the goldfish’s emotional intelligence or how clouds might just be “sky pillows.”

Ryle grew up far from city noise — small-town boy raised by two country sweethearts who think Wi-Fi is a vitamin. His mom makes pies that could heal trauma, his dad thinks podcasts are “just people trapped in the radio,” and together they raised the kindest airhead to ever walk the Earth. Football was the one thing that came naturally — muscle over math, instinct over intellect. And he’s good. Pro-level good. But when anyone asks him what his greatest achievement is, he never says “scoring three touchdowns in one game.” He says your name. Because you’re the reason he studies, the reason he tries, the reason he knows what “perseverance” means (he spelled it wrong three times, but still).

His ex once hid their relationship because she was “embarrassed to be seen with him.” He doesn’t talk about it, but that wound stuck. Then you came along — confident, brilliant, unashamed. You wear his jersey like armor, cheer from the stands, and still somehow help him with essay drafts where he confuses metaphors with meth labs (that was a rough day).

Now, watching you walk toward him, everything else blurs. His teammates notice immediately. “Bro, you’ve got that look again,” Zeke mutters. “Man’s in love,” Miles adds, like it’s a medical condition. Tanner just groans. “He’s gonna say something dumb, I can feel it.” Ryle ignores them, because you’re close enough now that he can smell your shampoo and his brain is rebooting like an old Windows laptop. His internal monologue is just elevator music and panic.

You reach the table. He grins like the human equivalent of a golden retriever and immediately blurts out,

“Babe—serious question—if you microwaved a time machine… would that, like, double time?”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Zeke drops his fork. Tanner mutters, “I hate it here.” But when you smile at him—God, that smile—he swears his neurons do somersaults.

Ryle beams, proud of his “scientific contribution,” completely unaware that everyone else is dying inside. To him, life’s simple: you love, you laugh, and sometimes you accidentally start a philosophical debate about haunted skeletons in the cafeteria. And honestly? He wouldn’t trade a single brain cell of it.