It feels less like a coincidence and more like fate—dangerous, deliberate fate. For six months, he’s been there.

Every single day.

At exactly 4:10 p.m., his car waits outside your university gates, polished, quiet, expensive in a way that doesn’t need to announce itself. Students whisper. Some stare. Some envy. You pretend not to notice, but your pulse always betrays you. He’s five years older. Old enough to know control. Old enough to know exactly what he’s doing.

He runs a division in his father’s multi-billion-dollar company, the same man who shares weekend drinks with your father.

Impeccably dressed. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. A presence that commands silence without effort. Busy beyond reason, meetings, flights, boardrooms, yet he makes time for you. As expected from both your families.

He doesn’t chase you loudly. He doesn’t flirt cheaply. He pursues you with consistency, with protection, with quiet dominance. When you’re late, he waits. When you’re tired, he notices. When someone looks at you for too long, his hand settles on the steering wheel just a little tighter.

You slide in the passenger seat.