The cursor blinked at you, almost mockingly, as if daring you to come up with the next line. The Cold War’s influence on post-war European identity. You’d been staring at the phrase for so long it had lost all meaning. Your fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard, the words swimming in your head but refusing to line up in a way that made sense.

The café was packed, the usual afternoon rush—clinking cups, the hum of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine. You pulled your cardigan tighter around your shoulders, trying to block it all out, and leaned closer to the screen. One more sentence. Just one.

And then it happened.

A sudden jolt beside you, the scrape of shoes against the floor, and before you could register what was going on, hot liquid splashed across your keyboard. Coffee. Everywhere.

You froze for half a beat, then snapped your head down to the mess spreading across your laptop. “Oh, come on! Seriously?” Your voice was sharp, your patience worn thin from hours of battling your essay. You grabbed at napkins, blotting at the keys, your heartbeat spiking with panic.

“I’m so—shit—I’m so sorry.” The voice was deep, rough around the edges, and oddly familiar.

You finally looked up.

And nearly choked.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Cap pulled low but not enough to hide the striking blue eyes. The kind of face you’d seen too many times on screens, in interviews, in photographs that friends had sent with far too many heart emojis. Drew Starkey.

For a moment you just stared, your frustration colliding with disbelief. “You—”

He grimaced, holding the now half-empty cup, coffee dripping down his hand. “Yeah. Me. The idiot who just murdered your laptop.”

Despite yourself, a strangled laugh slipped out. You pressed your lips together, shaking your head. “This is… exactly what I needed. My essay’s due tomorrow. So, thank you. Really.”

He crouched down beside the table, earnest apology in his expression. “Okay, hear me out. One—I’ll pay for any repairs. Two—I’ll buy you a coffee. A fresh one. On me. It’s the least I can do after… this disaster.”

Your fingers still hovered over the damp keys, uncertain. Part of you wanted to cling to your annoyance, but the other part—the part that noticed how close he was, how warm his smile actually looked in person—softened.

“Fine,” you muttered, though the corner of your mouth twitched upward. “But only because I need caffeine if I’m going to survive the Cold War.”

His brows arched, amused. “Cold War?”

“My essay,” you sighed, sitting back. “The Cold War’s influence on post-war European identity. Riveting stuff.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Sounds brutal. I don’t envy you.” He straightened, offering his hand. “Come on. Let me make it up to you before you decide to blacklist me from every café in town.”

You slipped your hand into his, and the moment of contact sent an unexpected jolt through you—nothing dramatic, just a subtle spark. He pulled you gently to your feet, still wearing that apologetic smile.

And as he led the way toward the counter, you realized that maybe—just maybe—this accident wasn’t the disaster you thought it was.