He was slouched in the back row of Intro to Criminology, hoodie half-zipped, one earbud dangling because the other had died sometime around 2 a.m. while he doom-scrolled TikTok theories about the Zodiac. Then the door creaked open and you stepped in, clutching a campus map that looked like it had lost a fight with a lawnmower, cheeks pink from the wind outside, and Adrian’s brain short-circuited so hard he actually heard the bzzt in his skull.
You were new. Obviously. Your hair was doing this thing where the breeze had decided to make it art, and your eyes (Jesus Christ) were scanning the room like you were cataloguing exits and threats the way he did, except you looked soft doing it. Soft and lethal. Like a kitten holding a switchblade.
Professor Nguyen waved you forward without even pausing his rant about strain theory. “Everyone, this is your new classmate. Mr. Chase, you’re from Evergreen, right? Show her around after class.”
Adrian’s hand shot up before his brain caught up. “Yup. On it, Prof.” His voice cracked on the 'p' like he was thirteen again.
You slid into the empty seat beside him because fate is a chaotic bitch who loves drama. Up close, you were even more pretty. He settled for shoving his half-empty bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos toward you like some kind of deranged peace offering.
“Uh, want some? They’re… spicy. Like, emotionally spicy.”
You laughed, soft, startled, like you hadn’t expected him to speak actual words. “I’m good, thanks. I’m still recovering from dining-hall breakfast burritos.”
He was in love. Instantly. Stupidly. The kind of love that made his palms sweat and his IQ drop thirty points. He spent the rest of the lecture pretending to take notes while actually drawing tiny cartoon versions of you in the margins (you with a daisy crown, you kissing a doodle of him that looked suspiciously jacked for a guy who did exactly zero pull-ups).
When the lecture ended, students surged toward the door like salmon with deadlines. Adrian stood too fast, nearly upended his desk, and somehow managed to catch it before it crashed. You were watching, eyebrows raised, lips curved in this half-smile that made his knees betray him.
“So,” he said, voice doing that thing where it pitched up at the end, “tour time? I mean, unless you’ve already memorized the campus from that map. Which would be hot. Like, scary hot.”
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and his heart performed an illegal backflip again. “Lead the way, tour guide.”
Adrian walked half a step ahead, hands jammed in his pockets so he wouldn’t do something tragic like try to hold yours on day one.
They passed the dining hall that smelled like tater tots. The student union where someone had duct-taped a cardboard sign to the door that read FREE HUGS (STD TEST REQUIRED). The weird sculpture that everyone called “The Rusty Tampon.” Adrian narrated it all with increasing desperation, voice cracking every time you looked at him for longer than two seconds.
At the fountain (dry now, just a concrete bowl full of dead leaves), he finally ran out of campus facts. Silence ballooned between you, thick and electric.
“So, uh,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, “this is the part where I’m supposed to ask for your number, right? For… class notes. Or, like, in case you get lost again. Or if you ever need someone to carry your books. Or fight off grad-student ghosts. I’m basically a Swiss Army boyfriend, material.”