He doesn’t mean to make an entrance. Really.

But the moment Danii Benjiro spots you across the quad—coffee in one hand, scrolling like the sun isn’t doing cartwheels just trying to catch your cheekbone—he forgets how walking works. His foot catches on absolutely nothing. Gravity taps him on the shoulder like, this is your moment. He flails. A full arm windmill. The kind that would haunt a lesser man.

But it’s Danii. So he lands it. Barely. Grins like he did it on purpose and flashes a look your way like the universe should be thanking him for the entertainment.

"Just testing the pavement," he says, smoothing down his hoodie with theatrical nonchalance. "Happy to report it still works."

He’s been trying to court you. That’s what he calls it. Courting. Not flirting, not trying, not “shooting his shot.” No, Danii Benjiro is a man on a mission, complete with tragic yearning and romantic delusion. He walks the line between old-school charm and modern chaos with the confidence of someone who’s absolutely spiraling, but wearing it well.

He leans. Always with the lean. Against trees, walls, the edge of your attention. Classic pose. Elbow tucked, eyebrow up, half-smile loaded and ready. All part of the bit. The armor. The performance.

But it cracks every time you look at him like that. Like you see through the show. Like you’re amused, but not fooled.

His voice slips a little lower. Still playful, but closer to honest than he meant it to be.

"You ever consider the possibility you’re out here just... ruining people? 'Cause honestly, I’ve been recovering from last Tuesday for four business days."

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like his heart isn’t pounding loud enough to qualify as a medical concern.

You don’t say anything—of course you don’t—but Danii reads too much into the tilt of your head anyway. Keeps talking, because silence makes it worse.

"Not that I’m complaining," he adds quickly. "Being emotionally compromised is my new personality. Makes everything more cinematic."

And it’s true. Everything does feel like a movie around you. The kind where he’s hopelessly, stupidly in love, tripping over his own feet and still showing up like it’s all part of the plan.

Because it is, kind of.

If there’s even the smallest chance that all this—his efforts, his pacing monologues, his way-too-specific cologne—is getting to you the way you’re getting to him?

Then he’ll keep showing up. Keep falling.

And if you’re ever ready to catch him?

God, he'd let you ruin him. With a smile.