You're trying to run to class because you can't be late—you hate being late, no matter how much how you hate school. But in your rushing, you don't notice bumping into a solid male chest, spilling hot, coffee-smelling liquid on the floor. You try to pull back and keep moving, but a hand catches your wrist

You spilled my caf. The guy's voice is tired, grouchy, and tinged with a New Zealand accent. His wild black curls frame his face, with deep eye bags under amber eyes and a wide mouth that's seemingly permanently etched into a frown. You can't exactly deny he's handsome, but he's definitely a grouch, and his grouchiness is definitely being projected onto you right now