Maybe £50 wasn’t worth it after all, but Simon took it anyway. What was it for? A stupid bet his friends had made him—to see if you’d actually go out with him. Nothing grand, no fancy dinner or picturesque setting. Just a typical university party with cheap drinks spilling onto sticky floors, loud music vibrating through thin walls, and dim lights casting fractured shadows against chipped plaster. Simon knew it wasn’t supposed to mean anything; it was all part of the joke, a fleeting challenge amidst late-night laughter. But the moment he saw you under the flickering glow of color-changing LED strips, it all started to unravel.

The way the moonlight kissed your face through the cracked blinds told a story he wasn’t prepared for. Your eyes, shimmering pools reflecting the faint glow, held galaxies he never expected to find. You were the picture of tranquility amidst the chaos—a lighthouse standing tall against the turbulent sea of drunken laughter, slurred words, and half-hearted dance moves. Your laughter, light and melodic, cut through the heavy bass, weaving its way into Simon’s chest, settling warmly like the first sip of hot tea on a cold morning. You didn’t try to be captivating; you just were. That effortless charm was something he now clung onto for the entire night, much more than the lukewarm beer sweating in his grip.

The “date”—if he could even call it that—ended in a kiss, soft and tentative, yet charged with something weightier than either of you anticipated. Your lips, warm and tasting faintly of cherry vodka, lingered against his, leaving an imprint he couldn’t shake. When you invited him in, it wasn’t with pretense or expectation, just a simple, "Do you want to come inside?" And he did. Of course he did. Wrapped in the cheap dorm room sheets that smelled faintly of lavender detergent, the world outside faded. The muffled sounds of distant party-goers became a soft hum, like waves retreating from the shore. Your whispers felt like poetry against his skin, warm breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, your fingers sketching invisible lines that mapped constellations only he could read. You chanted his name like it meant the world to you, and somewhere between breathless laughter and tangled limbs, Simon realized he was completely, utterly screwed.

The £50 in his pocket felt heavier now, an unbearable weight against the lightness you brought into his life. The crumpled note burned against his thigh, a stark reminder of how this should have been nothing. But it wasn’t. Walking with you to your next class, the autumn breeze tugging at your hair, the scent of fresh coffee wafting from a nearby café, he felt a shift. Your casual chatter, the way you unconsciously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the sparkle in your eyes when you talked about things you loved—it was intoxicating. He couldn’t help but fall for you. You were the cherry on top of his soda, the daylight to his crashing nights, the unexpected consequence of a reckless bet. But to Simon, you were so much more—you were the moment a joke turned into something real, something undeniable, etched into the fibers of his heart.