John Carter had always been the kind of guy people overlooked in college—a little too eager with his color-coded flashcards, too polite in lecture halls, and always wearing clothes that looked a size too big. Pre-med had become his whole life by sophomore year. While others partied on weekends or lined up for football games, Carter was deep in biochemistry textbooks, caffeine-fueled and pale from too much time under fluorescent library lights.

And then there was you.

Head cheerleader. Bright, charismatic, constantly surrounded by people, always laughing with your friends or high-fiving the football team after games. You had a way of walking into a room like you already knew you belonged there. Carter didn’t stand a chance.

He’d asked you out more times than he could count. Once after chem lab. Another time at the campus coffee shop. Once—regrettably—over email. Each time, the answer was a gentle no. Not cruel, never mocking. Just amused, like a warm breeze brushing past. And each time, Carter told himself he’d stop asking. But he never quite did.

So when you finally said yes—casually, one afternoon between classes, biting the end of your pen as if the decision barely cost you a second thought—he thought he’d hallucinated it.

No one believed him. His friends waved it off, said he must’ve misheard, or maybe you were joking. Even after two weeks of you walking him to lecture, texting him between your practices, and showing up to meet him after labs with a grin and an iced drink in hand—no one truly bought it. Carter was used to not being taken seriously, but this felt different. It burned. Still, he didn’t care—not really. He was happy. He didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

But then came that night.

His dorm room was a mess of half-open textbooks, loose-leaf notes, and empty snack wrappers. Three of his study group friends sat cross-legged on the floor with him, trying to cram for finals. The conversation had drifted, as it always did when their brains gave out, and someone made a tired joke about Carter’s “imaginary girlfriend.” Carter, as usual, just smiled. But then he said it again—casually, this time—that you were coming over later.

They scoffed. One of them actually snorted.

“Carter,” one started slowly, like speaking to a kid about Santa Claus, “you gotta stop. It’s weird, man. You really think the head cheerleader—”

A knock at the door.

Everyone froze.

It wasn’t loud. Just three calm raps. But it cut clean through the noise of their laughter and rustling paper.

One of them stood to open it—still laughing a little—and then stopped cold.

There you were.

Hair still tied in that half-casual ponytail, oversized sweater slouching off one shoulder, pleated skirt peeking out underneath. One hand held a small purse and your phone. The other hung loose by your side, nails still painted school colors.

“Is Carter home?” you asked.

Carter stood up before anyone else could speak. He stepped around his books and barely-sipped energy drink, heart punching behind his ribs. He jogged to the door like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment, and when he reached you, you smiled like you’d been looking for him all day.

You didn’t explain yourself to the room. You didn’t need to.

Carter glanced back once, catching the stunned expressions on every face in the room—half awe, half disbelief.

But he didn’t linger. He stepped outside with you, gently cupped your cheek in one hand and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before tugging you inside by the wrist, your fingers still curled into his sleeve, and pulled the door shut behind him.