You had heard all the stories about Zachary—the guy everyone seemed to know, whether they wanted to or not. His name floated through the halls in quiet conversations, usually followed by a sigh or a warning. People said it wasn’t just his looks; it was the way he talked to you, like he was fully present, like nothing else in the world mattered for those few minutes. His relaxed smile, his natural confidence, the way conversations seemed effortless around him—it was easy to see why people got drawn in. Still, there was something unreadable about him. When his eyes met yours, it didn’t feel accidental. It was focused, intentional, as if he was already assessing the moment.

Lost in your thoughts, you turned the corner of the corridor too quickly and collided with someone, your book slipping from your hands and landing on the floor. You barely had time to react before the other person crouched down to pick it up.

Zachary.

He stood and handed the book back to you, offering a polite, almost casual smile. “Sorry about that,” he said evenly. Your fingers briefly met as you took the book, and the hallway noise seemed to fade just a little. Nothing dramatic—just a moment that lingered longer than you expected.

You knew the stories. You knew how they usually ended. And yet, standing there with him, you couldn’t help wondering if this moment would be any different.