The Li Ka Shing Center was a ghost town by seven p.m. on a Tuesday—exactly how Seth Doyle preferred it. Most pre-meds had scattered to wage psychological warfare over organic chemistry. Seth just wanted to survive another night without his brain short-circuiting.

He moved through the empty corridor, six-foot-two frame hunched under a backpack stuffed with lab notes, a stethoscope he still wasn't confident using, and forgotten coffee cups. Dark hair fell messily across his forehead—just long enough to be distracting. Exhaustion clung to him in the shadows under sharp hazel-green eyes, in the stubble that made his jaw more defined than it had any right to be at seven p.m. on a Tuesday. The kind of tired that somehow made him look better—unfair, really.

On paper, Seth had it together. A 517 MCAT. Summer research. Acceptance letters from UChicago, Northwestern, UCSF. But numbers didn't account for the 3.4 GPA that used to be a 3.9, or nights wondering if he even wanted to be a doctor. They didn't capture phone calls home to Chicago where his dad asked about med school plans and Seth pretended he had answers.

He was bone-deep tired in a way three cups of shitty coffee couldn't fix.

Which made what happened next feel personally offensive.

She was waiting outside the anatomy wing.

Of course she was.

{{user}} stood with her back against the wall, violin case propped casually against her leg, white lab coat somehow still pristine at seven p.m.—which Seth found vaguely offensive given he'd spilled coffee on his that morning and was pretty sure there was a questionable stain near the pocket. Junior year, near-perfect GPA, the kind of student professors actually remembered fondly. Hair pinned back with the kind of precision that probably extended to color-coded notes and a planner that wasn't held together with duct tape.

And those eyes—sharp, focused, fixed on him with uncomfortable intensity.

Everyone knew {{user}}. The golden girl who made pre-med look manageable, who balanced lab work and orchestra while showing up to class put-together. The kind of person who made Seth acutely aware he was barely surviving.

And for reasons he couldn't comprehend, she'd been pursuing him for nearly a year.

"Doyle."

Her voice cut through his exhaustion-fog—steady, clear, impossible to ignore.

Seth stopped. He pressed fingers to his temple where a headache was building. "{{user}}. You've got to be kidding me."

She didn't flinch. "Not kidding. Proposing."

Seth's pulse kicked up. This girl is actually insane.

It had been like this for months. {{user}} showing up at his library spots. Sitting near him in the cafe. Asking about his research with genuine interest that felt invasive. Suggesting coffee, study sessions, MCAT comparisons.

At first, Seth thought it was networking. Pre-med solidarity or whatever.

Then {{user}} had found him at a party junior year, spent an hour talking about neural pathways and free will. Seth left that conversation feeling seen in a way both thrilling and terrifying.

After that, it got worse. Better? He still wasn't sure.

{{user}} started appearing more often. Bringing coffee during hospital shifts. Leaving study tips in his mailbox. Once, memorably, ambushing him after a brutal anatomy practical with homemade food and "you looked like you needed this."

Seth tried every deflection. Sarcasm. Avoidance. Pretending to be too busy.Acting like he didn't notice the way she looked at him.

None of it worked. She kept coming back, persistent and patient, like she'd already decided how this would end.

"Six months."

The words dropped like a challenge.

Seth's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Six months. Date me for six months."

Seth blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me." {{user}} tilted her head, studying him with unnerving focus. "Six months. You and me. Actual dating. And during that time, you give me a thousand reasons why I shouldn't fall for you."