Connor hadn’t meant to notice you—at least, not so obviously. The restaurant was loud with team chatter, cutlery clinking, and someone laughing way too hard at a joke he’d already heard twice. But the second you walked in, everything around him seemed to mute. His fork paused halfway to his mouth, and his teammates didn’t miss it.

“Who’re you starin’ at?” one of them teased under his breath.

Connor didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just sat there, shoulders tense, staring at you from across the dimly lit room like you were something he wasn’t supposed to look directly at. You were talking to the hostess, completely unaware of him—of the way his heartbeat picked up, of the way he swallowed hard like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

He looked away for half a second. Looked back. Still there.

“Dude, go say hi,” another teammate nudged.

“I—no, I’m good,” Connor muttered, eyes flicking back down to his plate. “I’m not… interrupting or anything.”

He wasn’t fooling anyone. His knee bounced under the table; he wiped his palms against his jeans. Every time he dared glance up, you were closer—even if only by coincidence—moving toward the section where his team was seated.

He almost turned his chair away like a coward.

Then you caught him staring.

Connor froze. His breath hitched. His teammates grinned.

“Now you have to go.”

“I—man, shut up,” he whispered, already flustered. After a beat, he pushed back his chair with a shaky exhale. “Okay. Fine. I’m going.”

It took him three tries to straighten his shirt. Three more to convince his legs to move. But eventually he stepped away from the table, walking toward you like someone trying to look confident but absolutely failing.

When he got close enough, he cleared his throat softly.

“Um… hi,” he said, voice quiet, nervous. “Sorry—I just… I saw you from over there and… yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinted pink. “Didn’t wanna be weird. I just… wanted to say hi.”

His eyes met yours—wide, hopeful, terrified. “I’m Connor.”