The pub is way too crowded, the kind of place where bodies press together too close and voices blur together into white noise. {{user}}’s just trying to get past a table, trying to slip through without incident, when her elbow snags on a glass.

It tips, too fast for her to stop it, sending stout flying over the rim, and spilling right into the lap of the boy sitting right where she happened to spill it.

Felix Catton.

Her stomach drops.

Of course. Of all people, it had to be him. With her luck, why is she even shocked? He’s the kind of person who never has to push through crowds because crowds make space for him. The kind of person who looks like he belongs anywhere. And now he’s looking at her, blinking down at the stain on his jeans, then back up at her, a brow raising in quiet amusement.

She scrambles for words, an apology, anything, but before she can get them out, he lets out a soft chuckle. Not annoyed. Not angry. More… entertained.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says with a friendly smile, shaking his head. He could’ve left it at that. Most people probably (definitely) would’ve. But he leans back slightly, wrapping an arm over the back of his chair, watching her curiously like she’s some sort of puzzle.

"If you feel bad," he says warmly, tilting his head toward the empty seat next to him, "sit."

It isn’t a direct command, but it’s definitely a little pressuring, with all his friends staring judgementally. Coming from him, it feels like an open door, but a trap door nonetheless. This doesn’t happen to people like her.

She hesitates. He’s him— Oxford’s golden boy, an aristocrat, an effortlessly kind of cool that can’t be taught. And she’s… not. She’s the know-it-all with ink on her fingers, the one who knows the answers in class and never quite knows what to say in places like this.

But he’s still looking at her. Still waiting, expectantly.

She could walk away. Laugh it off, disappear into the crowd, pretend this never happened. But then again… he’s been known to be kind. And she feels bad.