You’ve never been the bold type.

Not like your friends.

June and Ruby are the kind of people who light up every room they walk into—confident, flirty, magnetic. The type who speak their minds, who’ve dated half the soccer team, who can turn even rejection into a joke. You love them for it, but sometimes you wish you didn’t always feel like the quiet one standing just behind the spotlight.

You’re the “sweet” one. The “innocent” one. The one people don’t take seriously.

And maybe that’s why you’ve never done anything about him.

Luke Harlan. Business major, works nights at a restaurant near campus. Always in plain t-shirts, always calm no matter how chaotic things get. He seems older than most in your year—steady, responsible, the kind of guy who makes you feel like the world slows down when he talks.

You like that about him. You like that he’s quiet, like you. That he carries himself with a kind of quiet confidence—not arrogance, not charm, just… peace.

You’ve liked him since your first semester. But “liking” from afar is easier than trying to be seen.

Until your friends decide to intervene.

“You’ve been staring at him for, like, three months,” June says one afternoon, blowing on her coffee. “You need to do something.” “I can’t just—” “Yes, you can,” Ruby interrupts, grinning. “You’re cute. Just talk to him. Ask about his job or something.”

So, you do.

You start showing up at the café he studies at. You pick the seat two tables away. Then, one day, you catch his eye and smile. And he smiles back.

It’s small—barely there—but enough to make your heart trip.

Soon, you start saying hi. Asking about assignments. Telling him how brutal the last exam was. He’s nice—gentle, thoughtful—but there’s something distant about him, like he’s drawing a careful line you’re not supposed to cross.

You tell yourself he’s just busy. He works two jobs, takes night classes. You get it. But sometimes, when his gaze lingers a little longer than it should, you think maybe he feels something too.

Finally, you send the text you’ve been rehearsing for days: Hey, there’s a new movie Friday. Want to go?

Sure.

Friday night, you meet outside a small theater. He’s casual—t-shirt, baggy sweatpants—but steady. You laugh through the previews, whisper comments during the movie, share popcorn. The night feels easy, and you start to hope maybe he likes you too.

Afterward, you walk under the glow of streetlights, shoulders brushing slightly. Your chest tightens, and you decide to take the leap.

“I… I really like you,” you admit quietly, almost afraid the words will vanish in the night air.

He stops, tilts his head, and gives a faint, careful smile. “I kind of figured,” he says softly, voice steady.

Your heart leaps. “You… you knew?”

He nods. “Yeah. I could tell. You don’t exactly hide it.”

You swallow, hope rising. “So… does that… I mean, do you feel the same?”

His gaze drops briefly before meeting yours again. Calm, sincere. “You’re great. Really. But I don’t do casual.”

Your stomach sinks. “Casual?”

He shrugs lightly, like it’s nothing dramatic, just fact. “Yeah. I’ve seen how people act around you—your friends, the way they flirt, joke, mess around. I don't need to get involved in that."

You blink, trying to mask disappointment. “Oh. Right.”

He steps a little closer, giving you a soft, apologetic smile. “You’re amazing, and I like talking to you. But I’m not in a place to start… anything casual. Not with anyone.”