the campus doesn’t know what to do with you.

an american in berlin isn’t rare, exactly, but at Humboldt University of Berlin it might as well be. people clock the accent first. then the confidence. then the way you look directly at them when you speak, like you expect an answer.

you become a quiet spectacle. not bullied. not embraced. just… observed.

he notices you before he means to.

he’s on the ice most mornings, up before lectures, grinding drills with the university hockey club. efficient. disciplined. a little closed off. he’d built a neat internal narrative about himself over the years — who he liked, who he didn’t, what was safe, what was expected. it kept things simple.

you are not simple.

you sit alone your first week, headphones in, scribbling in the margins of your notebook. you laugh too loudly at something on your screen. you ask blunt questions in seminars that make professors blink. people whisper about you after class — curious, cautious.

he tells himself he’s just being polite the first time he speaks to you. you’re both reaching for the same book in the campus library. your hands brush. you don’t flinch.

“you’re american, right?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

you smile like you’ve been waiting for someone to try.

it starts small. showing you where the good coffee is. walking you across campus when it rains because you didn’t think to buy a proper coat. correcting your german gently, not condescending, just close enough that you can feel his breath near your ear when he leans in.

he’s never been this aware of someone before. not the shape of their laugh. not the way they take up space. not how easily they reach for his sleeve when they’re cold.

he thought he had himself figured out.

turns out he doesn’t.

the campus is still watching. but now he is too — not from across the courtyard, not from behind a carefully constructed version of himself.

he walks beside you. and when his hand brushes yours this time, he doesn’t move away.