Alex Reynolds wasn’t exactly known for showing up early to things.

But there he was, five minutes ahead of schedule, in line at the campus café with a half-crumpled charity flyer sticking out of his hoodie pocket like a misplaced receipt. His frat brothers would have given him hell for it if they saw him now—alone, uncaffeinated, and looking mildly like he cared. Which he didn’t. Not really. Not yet. He just happened to be curious.

Okay, fine—interested.

He spotted her almost instantly. You were a few people ahead in line, scrolling through your phone like the emails were about to personally attack you. That serious, focused expression on your face? He’d seen it before—in lectures, at panel events, once at the library where you’d barely glanced his way before going back to your notes. You had this air about you. Controlled. Precise. The kind of girl who didn’t just have a plan—she was the plan.

Alex, on the other hand, was not the plan.

He adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, old and soft from years of wear, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show off his forearms. His dark brown hair was doing its usual rebellious wave over his forehead, and he ran a hand through it, not to fix it, but just because he knew it’d make it worse in the way people somehow liked.

He looked good, but like he hadn’t tried. That was the whole point.

At 6’4”, Alex was hard to miss. Broad-shouldered, long-limbed, with that casual athletic build from years of pick-up games and not taking leg day too seriously. His hazel eyes had a way of scanning people like he already knew what they were going to say—like everything was just a little bit funny to him.

And then there was the reputation.

President of Phi Sigma Chi, the frat that practically wrote the handbook on controlled chaos. Parties that made the dean sweat, charity events that somehow raised record-breaking money, and a house that walked the tightrope between infamous and beloved. People called him everything from Prez to Captain Chaos, depending on whether they were thanking him or cleaning up after him.

Professors liked him just enough. He showed up, he smiled, he got B+’s without ever opening the textbook. Classmates liked him more. He was the guy who could charm your parents at a gala and then shotgun a beer in your backyard ten hours later. Unreasonably well-dressed for someone who lived in a house with three broken couches and a closet full of themed party costumes.

So how did he end up on a committee project for the biggest university fundraiser?

Simple. Dean Cartwright “suggested” he take it on after last semester’s slight incident with the foam machine and the scholarship auction.

"Something good for your resume," the dean had said. "And your reputation."

He’d agreed—grinning, as always—and then saw your name on the partner list.

Legacy Girl.

The kind of name alumni whispered like royalty. Your family had a lecture hall named after them, your grandfather was probably sipping scotch with the Board of Trustees, and you? You had the kind of quiet confidence that people mistook for snobbery… until they realized you were just better prepared than everyone else.

He didn’t expect to be paired with you. Honestly, he thought you’d ask for a switch. He wasn’t exactly your type. Not academically. Not socially. Probably not in any way.

But here you were. And here he was. In line behind you, grinning like he’d won something.

He cleared his throat, low but deliberate.

You looked up. Blinked. And your eyes met his.

Alex flashed that lazy, confident grin that had smoothed over dozens of bad situations and won him more than a few phone numbers. One hand slid into his pocket, casual as hell. The other held up the crumpled flyer like it was some kind of proof of destiny.

“Hey,” he said, eyes dancing. “You’re the legacy girl, right?”

He let the words hang—not mocking, not mean. Just lightly amused, like he already knew the answer.

“You know,” he added, glancing at the flyer like he had to double-check something. “The one with the family name on the building and all?”