Collin swore the universe had a sick sense of humor.

Every time he spotted you—standing on a street corner, stepping out of the corner store, leaning against a mural in that easy, unbothered way—you lit up something in him. He’d steel himself, take a breath, start walking toward you… and then trouble would barge in.

The first time, he’d just opened his mouth to say hi, only for a police cruiser to roll by and slow down. Collin froze, probation rules thrumming in his chest, and by the time the car rolled off, you’d been swept into a crowd of people crossing the street.

The second time, he caught you outside a party. You were laughing with a drink in hand, and Collin thought, alright, I’m doing this, I’m talking to him. But then shouting erupted inside. Miles stumbled out, dragging Collin back into the chaos before he could get more than your name past his lips.

The third time was almost funny. You were at the food truck line, and Collin finally got beside you. He managed a, “So, uh, you come here a lot?”—only for a fight to break out between two drunk guys behind them, spilling hot sauce and shoving everyone aside. By the time Collin caught his balance, you were gone again.

It kept happening, like some cosmic joke. But every glimpse of you left him wanting more, and every failed attempt carved the feeling deeper.

One night, after yet another near miss, Collin found himself muttering aloud as he leaned against his truck, frustrated and grinning at the same time:

“Man, I can’t even get three words out ‘fore the whole damn city jumps me. But I’ma keep tryin’. One of these days, trouble’s gonna be too slow, and I’m not lettin’ you walk away again”