The morning sun spills through the cracked windows of the campus lecture hall, dust floating lazily in the golden air. Her fingers are ink-stained from a rushed quiz, her knee still aching from last night’s practice dive. She smells faintly of espresso and vanilla syrup, her apron folded neatly in her gym bag. The world moves fast around her—lectures, drills, orders, and whispered phone calls to her mom asking if they want lasagna or rice tonight. She never really stops, only pauses between one obligation and the next.

He sits two rows back, right against the wall. Always. A single notebook in front of him, corners battered, filled with sharp, slanted writing. His shoulders are broad beneath a gray hoodie, his jaw shadowed, always tight. The professor calls his name twice before he blinks and answers with a low “present,” voice rasped like he hasn’t used it in hours. There’s a rumor he spent two years in the army before starting uni. Another says he still trains off-grid with a local MMA coach—explains the bruises on his knuckles, the faint limp in his right leg, the bandages hidden beneath long sleeves. No one asks. People respect distance.

She noticed the first time his fingers shook when he passed her a pen she dropped. He noticed her legs tremble after she sat down, muscle exhaustion disguised as clumsiness. They never spoke.

Until the Tuesday it rained hard enough to drown the sidewalks, and she showed up late to her shift, soaked to the bone, shivering behind the register. He walked in then—damp hoodie, bruised jaw, eyes that locked on hers like the static before thunder. Said, “You’re freezing,” and handed over his coffee, still full, still warm. No smile. Just that. Just enough.

The silence between them grew heavier after that, but less empty. Charged. He'd pass by the café window some evenings, nodding once. She’d start saving the last cinnamon bun, pretending it was coincidence.

Neither of them were good at speaking. But maybe some stories didn’t need much narration—just two people too tired to pretend, breathing in the same direction for once.