Ann Arbor was loud in every direction—frats yelling from Packard, bass thumping from a house off State, scooters whining past like mosquitoes. The air smelled like cold leaves and cheap vodka.

Jaden’s hoodie was half-unzipped, sleeves shoved up his forearms, stick bag slung over one shoulder. Practice had run late again, the floodlights at Elbel lighting up the mist until everything looked washed in silver. His calves ached, shoulders sore, hair still damp from the locker-room shower. He’d shoved his contacts out and put his glasses on instead—the square-frame kind that made people double-take, because he looked too put-together for someone who also cussed through drills six hours a day.

The group chat was blowing up—guys from the team were already pre-gaming. A couple of them had sent blurry snaps from some sorority basement. He thumbed through it, half-smiling, but his brain was already tired. He still had a linear-algebra worksheet due before midnight. Data-science life.

The dorm lounge was supposed to be empty this time of night—good place to hide, knock out the last few problems, maybe FaceTime his cousin back home in North Dakota.

Instead, the place looked like a craft store had exploded.

The coffee table was covered in felt sheets in every color, scissors, glue sticks, rolls of string, a jar of glitter, and a whole lineup of red cups stacked in a pyramid. On the side counter sat three family-size chip bags, a half-eaten tray of cookies, and—he blinked—what looked like an actual catering thermos of hot chocolate. The room even smelled cozy: sugar, fabric, and those cheap plug-in vanilla things the RAs love.

And you—his RA—were right in the middle of it all.

He recognized you instantly. He’d seen your emails, your color-coded flyers on every floor: “Dorm Craft Night—Let’s Make Felt Flag Banners!” complete with sparkly borders and little doodled stars. He’d laughed when he saw it pinned next to the fire-safety notice.

Now you sat cross-legged on the carpet, hair loose and shiny in the lamplight, sweatshirt swallowing your frame, face creased with concentration as you glued tiny felt triangles to a string. There was a clipboard beside you with a signup sheet—blank.

Not one person had shown.

He leaned on the doorway, shaking his head. “Damn,” he said, voice low and a little rough from practice. “You really went all out.”

You flinched, startled, then looked up at him—eyes wide, like a kid caught stealing cookies.

He smirked. “You do this all by yourself?”

You blinked, cheeks pink. “People were supposed to come.”

“Yeah?” He glanced around. “They die or something?”

You sighed, soft. “Guess everyone had other plans.”

He could’ve left right then. Should’ve. But there was something about the sight of you—this quiet little explosion of effort in a room nobody else cared about—that got under his skin.

He dropped his gear bag with a dull thud and walked closer.

She probably thinks I’m just some jock, he thought. Which, yeah. Kind of true. Six-two, broad, always in team gear, smell of sweat and laundry detergent, brown curls that wouldn’t stay down even when he tried. But he wasn’t brain-dead. He was the only freshman in his cohort juggling D1 practices and a data-mining seminar that made his skull hurt.

He crouched down beside you, knees cracking. “You even got snacks, huh? And hot chocolate?” He opened one of the lids. “Yo—this is, like, legit catered.”

You didn’t answer. You went back to cutting. That stubborn little frown—kind of cute, actually.