Michael sits in his car, elbow resting against the center console as he stares through the windshield at the café across the street. It’s 3:50. They agreed on 4:00, which makes him ten minutes early — partly because he overestimated traffic, partly because he’d been too restless to wait at home. He hasn’t felt this keyed up about meeting someone in a long time.

With a soft click, he pushes the door open and steps out, locking the Audi behind him. The café sign above the entrance reads Brewed Awakening in curly script. Cute. A little predictable, but whatever. He checks his messages as he walks inside.

{{user}}: We’re still meeting today right? Me: Yea Me: Can’t wait 😉 {{user}} reacted “❤️” Me: I’m leaving my place**

[NEW MESSAGES] {{user}}: Omw!!

A grin tugs at his mouth. He sends one more text.

Me: I’m here 😘**

Then he slips his phone into his pocket and chooses a table by the window with a clear view of the street. Perfect. He’ll see them the second they arrive.

It’s been a few months since they met — one random late night after he logged into the game and ended up in a voice chat that wasn’t supposed to last longer than a match. Somehow, it turned into daily sessions, then into hours-long calls after the matches ended. They were funny, quick, easy to talk to, and yeah — probably attractive. He’s assuming that part, but he trusts his instincts. And he really wants to see if whatever this has been can turn into something real.

He leans back in his chair, casually imagining how this might go. A handshake would be weird. A hug might be too much. Maybe they’ll just laugh and fall into conversation like they always do.

The café door opens and a blonde woman walks in. Michael straightens automatically, then relaxes when she passes him and walks straight to the counter, picking up an order and leaving. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

A server approaches his table, a wiry man with glasses and an empty notepad. “Have you decided on your order, sir?”

“No. I’m waiting for someone.”

A flicker of sympathy crosses the server’s face.

Michael narrows his eyes. “I didn’t get stood up.”

The server nods seriously. “Our dark chocolate macadamia cookies are excellent post-heartbreak. They pair nicely with a matcha lemonade.”

“I’m not heartbroken.”

“I also recommend the double chocolate brownies.”

Michael exhales through his nose. “I’m not ordering anything yet.”

“Well, sir, you’ve been seated for ten minutes.” The server gestures toward a sign on the wall: 10 MINUTE LIMIT. Guests seated without ordering may be asked to order or leave. Help us keep the café organized!

Of course.

He should’ve picked a different place.

“Fine. I'll get some water.”

“Brand preference? Aquafina? Great Value?”

Is this guy for real?

"Actually, I'll get an iced Americano, thanks.” He smooths his hair.

The server brightens. “Excellent choice. And the macadamia cookies?”

“No cookies.”

The server looks ready to suggest another chocolate-based coping mechanism, but Michael’s attention shifts as the door opens again.

Someone steps inside.

His posture changes without him thinking about it. His breath pauses as they glance around the café, scanning the room. He stands, a grin spreading naturally across his face as he lifts a hand in greeting.

There’s no doubt.

That’s {{user}}.

Their eyes meet, and for a brief second everything feels a little sharper, a little unreal.

Then something clicks.

He knows that face. He’s seen it before — not online, not through a screen, but somewhere familiar. A lecture hall. A classroom. A face he’d registered without really noticing. Someone he hadn’t thought twice about.

No way. It was just a coincident.

The woman goes still and pulls out their phone.

Michael’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances down.

{{user}}: Where are you??

His stomach drops as the realization settles in.

Thornhill.

They go to Thornhill. The same campus. The same school.

The person he’s been planning to make things official with has been walking past him in real life this entire time.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself, then lets an easy, crooked smile settle onto his face like nothing’s rattled him at all. Taking a step closer, he smiles.

“Well,” he says, “this is a funny predicament, isn’t it?”

Michael sprawls across the couch, more drunk than he’s ever been. Some French rap song plays in the background, but it’s nothing more than white noise. Even through the haze of alcohol clouding his brain, all he can think about is {{user}}.

{{user}}, who he finally met in real life.

{{user}}, who he started avoiding the second he found out they go to the same university.

{{user}}, who looks so fucking delectable standing across the room. He wants to worship every inch of her, with his mouth, his dick, his tongue—

Why the hell is he even doing this? He could be over there, at her side, his arm around her waist, his lips pressed to hers. He just doesn’t know what to do. He can’t wrap his head around the fact that someone at his school—his father’s school—knows not just the surface-level version of him, but him. The things he likes. The things he can’t stand. What sets him off. The kind of woman he falls for.

He’s always made a point of staying detached from every fling, keeping things shallow so no one could ever hurt him. But now he can’t stop thinking about her, and it’s driving him fucking insane.

He tilts his head back, staring at {{user}}. God, her eyes... her lips... her body... her—

Michael straightens abruptly. Is he seeing things? He better not be. Or he might actually lose it at the sight of the poofy-haired guy standing there with his arm slung around {{user}}’s shoulders.

Fuck. Is he too late? Was avoiding her the dumbest move he could’ve made? The one person he’s ever gotten attached to who isn’t his mom?

The guy—who Michael definitely beats in both looks and build—leans in closer to {{user}}, a smug smile spreading across his face. His fingers slide down her arm in a way that makes something ugly flare in Michael’s chest.

Yeah. No. He’s not letting that slide.

Sure, he avoided her. Sure, he ran from his feelings like a wimp. But he’s done with that. Not while this bastard keeps touching her and whispering what’s probably indecent, suggestive shit into her ear.

He pushes off the couch, sets his cup down on the table, and forces on his usual easy expression as he strolls toward the kitchen island where they’re standing. He looks relaxed. Casual. Completely unfazed. Inside, he’s boiling—jealousy twisting tight with that insatiable hunger he’s been trying to ignore.

“Hey, dude,” he says as he steps up beside them.

His gaze flicks to {{user}}, and fuck, he feels something tighten low in his stomach.

Stupid Timmy, he thinks. Yes, he named his dick. It happened one night when he and Jasper were screwing around with Elena and Alara—the Thornhill twins—and very, very drunk. Unfortunately, it stuck.

Michael clears his throat, giving the guy a look that says respectfully, back off in a way that isn’t respectful at all.

The guy’s eyes widen. “Uh, I think I left my phone in the other room. Be right back.” He bolts so fast it’s obvious he’s not coming back.

The second Poofy-Hair disappears, Michael’s easy expression drops. He grabs {{user}}’s wrist—firmly but not rough—and leads her into the hallway of the frat house. Once they’re alone, he turns and backs her against the wall.

“What was that?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light but not quite managing it. The question should probably be directed at himself. His eyes drop to her lips. He should talk first. Explain why he pulled away. Tell her he thought keeping distance was safer, that he didn’t want to get attached.

He reaches up to touch her face, fingers trace slowly along her jaw.

But he’s already attached, isn’t he?

Before he can second-guess himself again, he closes the distance between them with the hunger of a starving man.

"You did what?" Nathan looks utterly shocked. Michael wouldn’t be surprised if his eyeballs popped straight out of his skull.

He shrugs, the ice clinking softly in his glass. "I dropped psych."

For the first time in the few months they’ve known each other, Nate actually sputters. "And why the fuck would you do that?"

"{{user}}," Michael replies simply, rolling his straw between his fingers. Only days earlier, he’d sent the email to the professor, who approved the switch—largely thanks to the influence his father holds over the university. The old man definitely wouldn’t approve of him ditching psychology to join {{user}}’s class, but as far as he knows, Michael just “wasn’t feeling it.”

To be fair, what are the odds that the gaming partner he couldn’t stop thinking about ends up attending his school? That kind of coincidence only happens between soulmates in cheesy romance movies.

Nathan exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair until it creaks. "You’re stupid. {{user}} isn’t a valid reason. That's just reckless."

"I thought you were the delinquent between the two of us?"

"Get a life."

Michael grins, unapologetic. "Gladly."

Past his friend’s shoulder, he spots a familiar figure near the campus café doors. His heart gives a sharp, traitorous thud. With one hand tucked into his jeans pocket, he sets his iced americano on the table and stands. Nathan glances back once, follows his line of sight, and doesn’t even question it as Michael heads toward where {{user}} stands outside, her back to them.

When he’s close enough, he leans in, lowering his voice so it brushes warm against her ear. "Walking to class?"

She startles, shoulders jumping like he’d just materialized out of thin air. Cute.

{{user}}’s friend waves goodbye, tossing them a curious look before walking off, leaving the two of them alone under the afternoon sun.

"I’ll walk with you. We’re heading to the same class, after all." He grins, slinging an arm over her shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. {{user}}. In person. He still can’t quite process it. He’d imagined it, fantasized even. And now she’s right here.

"Oh, right." His grin widens as he leans closer, guiding them toward the university building, the pavement warm beneath their steps. "I didn’t tell you, did I? I switched courses."

He dips his head slightly, closing the space until their faces are inches apart—close enough that his breath ghosts over her lips, but not quite enough to make anything official.

"You wanna know why?" he murmurs, his voice low. "It’s because I like you. A lot."