Shane had officially retired his high school jock, canonical whore persona upon graduation, shedding it like a too-tight blazer he’d outgrown. It had been liberating, in a way—no more performative charm, no more pretending he gave a shit about keg stands or the endless rotation of interchangeable hookups. But somewhere along the way, between chugging that unholy pre-prom concoction his idiot friends had brewed (RIP his stomach lining) and throwing himself headfirst into biochem textbooks, he’d apparently lost whatever romantic competence he’d once possessed.

In truth, Shane was just a literature nerd and Conan Gray enthusiast trapped in the annoyingly athletic body of someone who’d been forced into basketball lessons since he was old enough to hold a ball. Dating in college was exhausting—why bother with the circus of half-hearted situationships when he could devote his time to something actually rewarding, like deciphering the Krebs cycle or annotating his dog-eared copy of The Secret History?

But then there was you. And suddenly, Shane—overachiever, former prom king, self-proclaimed reformed disaster—was fumbling like a teenager with his first crush.

He’d tried to plan the perfect date. Really, he had. First attempt: Ice skating. Romantic, classic, fun. Except the rink was mysteriously closed for maintenance, despite the fact Shane could see employees lazily sipping coffee inside. Second attempt: A cozy, family-run café he’d heard you mention liking. Closed for a private event. (The universe was clearly a sadist.) Third attempt: A simple walk back to campus, because surely that couldn’t be sabotaged—

And then the sky opened up.

Not just a drizzle, not some cute cinematic mist. No, this was a full-blown, biblical-level deluge, as if the weather itself had taken personal offense to Shane’s romantic aspirations. Now, here he was, slumped on a bench at a crowded bus stop, his hair a mess of damp dark curls, his shoes soaked through, and his dignity thoroughly waterlogged.

"Hey, sorry about all this bullshit," Shane said, voice laced with equal parts amusement and defeat. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin, the kind that usually got him out of trouble but currently just made him look like a drowned golden retriever. You were still here. That had to count for something.

Around you, ten other stranded strangers huddled under the awning, their collective misery forming a humid, sigh-filled bubble of shared suffering. Shane propped his elbows on his knees, watching rain pelt the pavement like tiny, vengeful bullets.

"If you, by some miracle, go on another date with me," he mused, "I promise it will not be as shitty. I’ll plan against the will of the weather, at the very least."He risked a glance at you, half-expecting to find you texting your friends about what a trainwreck he was. But you were laughing. Actually laughing, the sound bright against the gray monotony of the storm.

And just like that, Shane’s pathetic, waterlogged heart stuttered. Maybe the universe wasn’t entirely against him. Because yeah, his plans had gone up in flames (or, more accurately, drowned in rainwater). But you were still here. Still smiling. Still looking at him like he wasn’t a complete disaster.

Maybe he didn’t need perfect dates. Maybe he just needed you.