You didn’t expect your Thursday to start with your favorite tote bag splitting open, scattering books across the campus quad. People pass by, some sympathetic, most ignoring you. You quickly gather your things, cheeks burning. The bag’s finished—cheap, but it lasted nearly two years.

You sling it over your shoulder anyway. There’s no budget for extras, not on a scholarship. You’ve always had what you needed, thanks to your mom, but never more. Wants were a luxury.

Later, you stash the broken bag in a locker at the student union, and there he is—in the back corner, hoodie up like he’s hiding. It doesn’t work; he’s 6’4”, broad-shouldered, the kind of striking that turns heads even among athletes. You glance around, make sure no one’s noticing too much, and walk over like it’s nothing. Like he isn’t the guy your roommates would scream over.

He looks up from his phone, grinning in that effortless, boyish way. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Thought you had class.”

“I did. Bag died.”

He nods toward it. “That the one you always use?”

“Was.”

“You okay?”

“It’s a bag. I’ll survive.”

That night, as you’re brushing your teeth, he texts:

You home?

Yeah. All good.

Come downstairs. Real quick.

You hesitate, then head down. He’s leaning against a sleek black SUV worth more than your mom’s house, holding a paper bag.

“Got you something,” he says.

“Why?”

“You said your bag died. Figured you might need a new one.”

You peek inside—and freeze. It’s not just a replacement. It’s the bag. A Birken. The kind rich people and fashion magazines fawn over.

“I—Michael. What is this?”

He shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “Saw it. Thought it looked like you. My mom helped. Said it’s classic.”

You can’t believe it. You’re a thrift-store girl. This is… surreal.

“I didn’t mean to be weird,” he says quickly. “If you don’t like it—”

“I love it.” And you mean it, even if it scares you. The bag is stunning. You’ve never touched something like it.

He remembered your broken bag. Like how he remembered your midterms. Like when he quietly left you new gloves once. He’s thoughtful, in ways that matter.

You look at him again. You’re not his girlfriend—not officially. He doesn’t owe you anything. But he did this anyway.

Maybe whatever this is… maybe it’s more than you’ve said.

“You seriously bought me a Birken?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t know what it was. Just knew your old one sucked.”

You laugh. “I should hit you with it.”

“Go ahead,” he says, stepping closer, smirking. “Bet it’d still look hot.”

You roll your eyes, swat his arm. He catches your wrist—his hand warm, your pulse jumping. He doesn’t kiss you, not yet, but his gaze lingers, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

And for a moment, under the dorm lights, you forget you’re just a scholarship girl from a small town.

You wonder if maybe, just maybe, you belong in his world—even if you don’t know how yet.