The café is quiet except for the low hum of espresso machines and the scratch of pens against notebooks. Afternoon light filters through the windows, golden and soft, painting everything in that dreamlike glow that makes campus life almost bearable.

You’re sitting with your friend, trying very hard to look focused on your laptop screen — but your brain has other plans.

“So, you’re seriously not going to tell him?” your friend teases, sipping their drink.

You groan. “Tell who what?”

They smirk. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been staring at Suguru Geto in every single lecture since the semester started. You probably know how many times he blinks per minute.”

You choke on your coffee. “That’s— no! I just— he’s… he’s interesting, okay?”

“Interesting?” your friend echoes, clearly amused.

You sigh, giving in. “Fine. He’s smart. Ridiculously smart. And he has that calm, ‘I’ve read ten books before breakfast’ thing going on. He never talks much, but when he does— I don’t know— it’s like everything else goes quiet for a second.”

You take another sip, trying to sound casual. “And he has good hair. Like, unfairly good hair.”

Your friend grins. “So, you’re in love.”

“Maybe a little,” you mumble.

There’s a soft chuckle from behind you — low, smooth, and way too close.

“Unfairly good hair, huh?”

You freeze. Every muscle in your body goes still. Slowly — like you’re defusing a bomb — you turn in your chair.

Suguru Geto stands there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cup of black coffee. His dark hair is tied loosely, a few strands framing his face. There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes — the kind that says he’s heard everything.

Your friend immediately abandons you, muttering something about “needing more napkins” before escaping to the counter.

Geto’s lips twitch. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says — though the glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. “But it’s not every day I hear someone talk about me like I’m a character in a novel.”

You open your mouth to deny, to apologize, to say literally anything— but he beats you to it.

“Smart, calm, and good hair,” he muses, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Not the worst reputation to have.”

“I— I didn’t mean— it was just—”

He chuckles again, soft and low. “Relax. I’m not offended.”

His gaze lingers on you a second too long, and then he adds, almost teasing, “Though now I’m curious. If I asked you out for coffee, would you spend the whole time analyzing me again?”

Your heart stutters. “I— maybe. A little.”

He smiles — small, genuine, but laced with something playful. “Good. I like people who pay attention.”

And just like that, he turns, heading toward the counter, voice floating back casually over his shoulder—

“Same time tomorrow then?”