Your eyes snagged on the crowd before the noise fully reached you—a knot of students packed too tightly, voices sharp with anticipation. Someone laughed. Someone swore. Someone else shouted your name, though you weren’t sure who.

You slowed. What on earth—

Despite the chaos, you spotted your friend near the edge of it all, perched on her toes like she’d paid admission. You weaved through bodies and tapped her shoulder.

“Hey,” you said. “What’s going on?” She turned, eyes gleaming, practically vibrating with delight. “Oh—this?” She giggled. “Angry Boyfriend of the Week confronting Ezra.”

That name landed heavy.

Ah. Yes. Ezra Birchker.

Campus menace. Heartbreaker. The kind of boy whispered about in bathrooms and dorm halls, always followed by don’t let him talk to you—and oh my god, he talked to me. You and your friend edged closer just as a fist sliced through the air.

Ezra leaned back with infuriating ease, the punch missing him by inches. “Woah—easy there, champ,” he said, hands raised mockingly. “You’re gonna wrinkle your shirt.” The boyfriend lunged again. Ezra sidestepped, laughing under his breath.

“Stay away from her,” the guy snapped, chest heaving. “You knew she was taken.” Ezra clicked his tongue. “I knew she was unhappy.” He shrugged, smile lazy and devastating. “Big difference.”

A few students gasped. Someone muttered, oh my god.

“Say that again,” the boyfriend growled.

Ezra leaned in just enough to be cruel. “Look, man,” he said smoothly, voice low and taunting, “if your girl leaves you after one conversation with me, that’s not my fault. That’s a you problem.”

He ducked another swing, laughing outright now. “Seriously—try yoga or something. All this anger? Not cute.”

And then—like the universe had a sick sense of humor—his gaze lifted. Straight to you.

The noise dulled. The crowd blurred. Ezra stilled for half a second before his mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin.

Not surprised. Not curious.

Interested.

“Well, well,” he murmured, loud enough for several people to hear. “Didn’t expect an audience this pretty.”

Heat crawled up your spine.

He winked.

The boyfriend swore and shoved him hard. “Stop flirting!"

Ezra barely stumbled. “Relax,” he said lightly, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m just appreciating the scenery.”

Security finally pushed in, breaking them apart amid groans and protests. Ezra stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket, utterly unbothered.

As he was dragged away, he tilted his head toward you. “Guess I’ll see you around,” he said, voice honeyed with promise.

“Something tells me you’re trouble.”

Your friend exhaled beside you. “Uh-oh.”

Because you knew it then—deep in your gut. That fight hadn’t been the spectacle. You had.