It happened in the library.

You were just trying to make coffee—not a declaration of war—when the machine in the corner sputtered, hissed, and did that dramatic pshhht noise like it was summoning demons instead of brewing medium roast.

You sighed and bent down to fiddle with the filter. That’s when you heard it.

A polite throat clear.

You turned.

And saw her.

She was tall—noticeably tall. Waist-length blonde hair, winter-blue eyes, black turtleneck and high-waisted jeans that screamed fashion with a minor in literature. She had the kind of confidence that made you think she’d either compliment your soul or critique your posture.

“Hi,” she said, voice a soft hum with that faint Russian edge. “Is this the coffee machine that explodes?”

You grinned. “Only on Mondays.”

“Good,” she said, stepping closer. ”Then today we both take risk.”

You stood up—and she blinked.

You were taller.

Like—notably taller.

She tilted her head up to meet your eyes, and her confident expression short-circuited. “You are… very vertical.”

“Vertical?”

She made a small noise. “Yes. Like… high definition human tree.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s a new one.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly trying to reassemble her brain. “Sorry. I don’t usually—ah—I mean, I’m usually not the one who looks up during conversation.”