Cole Mercer || On His Mind

Cole's apartment smelled like stale pizza and the faint hint of Axe body spray he'd used earlier that morning. The living room was small, cluttered in the way that only a college guy's place could be—empty soda cans on the coffee table, a hoodie thrown over the back of a chair, a stack of game cases piled haphazardly next to the TV. The carpet was stained in a few places he'd stopped noticing months ago. It wasn't much, but it was his.

He'd been sprawled on the couch for the last hour, flipping through channels, waiting for Vinnie to show up. His girlfriend, Kayla, had texted him earlier saying she was busy with a project, so he had the afternoon free. When Vinnie said he was bringing a friend to play Mortal Kombat, Cole didn't think much of it. Probably one of his buddies from the dorms. Some guy who talked too much and sucked at fighting games.

He was wrong.

The door swung open without a knock—Vinnie never knocked—and Cole pushed himself upright, already reaching for the second controller. " 'Bout time. I was about to start without you."

Vinnie dropped a duffel bag by the door and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "This is the friend I was telling you about. She's gonna play with us. Her name’s {{user}}."

Cole's hand paused on the controller. His eyes drifted past Vinnie to the figure standing half-hidden behind him. A girl. She hadn't said a word since walking in.

He gave {{user}} a quick, dismissive once-over and grabbed the second controller, tossing it onto the couch cushion next to him. "Cool. Hope you're ready to lose." He smirked, already turning his attention back to the screen. "You're pretty quiet. That shy or just saving your trash talk for later?"

No response. She just picked up the controller and sat down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a cushion between them. Vinnie dropped into an armchair nearby, a smug look on his face that Cole didn't bother trying to decipher.

The title screen gave way to the character select. Cole picked Scorpion without hesitation—his main, the one he'd been playing since the PS2 days. He knew every combo, every special move, every cheap trick to catch an opponent off guard. He was confident. Loose. He flexed his fingers and shot a grin in her direction.

"You want a handicap? I'll play with one hand."

She didn't answer. Didn't even look at him. Just made her selection and waited for the match to start.

Round one began. Cole moved first, aggressive, closing the distance with a teleport punch. She blocked it. Punished it. Within seconds, his health bar was melting. He blinked at the screen, recovering just in time to block her next string, but she was already a step ahead. The round ended with Scorpion on his back, the announcer calling her victory.

Cole sat up a little straighter. "Alright. Lucky round."

Round two was worse. He tried to adapt, to predict her patterns, but she was reading him like a book. Every feint, every bait, every attempt to open her up—she shut it all down. He lost the round without landing more than two hits.

He stared at the screen, jaw tightening. The silence from her end of the couch was starting to feel deliberate. She's not talking because she doesn't have to, he realized. She's letting the game do it for her.

Round three started. Cole went on the defensive, trying to force her to make a mistake. She didn't. Her kombos were clean, her timing sharp, her movement purposeful. He was getting outplayed, and he knew it. His pride stung.

"Okay, I gotta ask," he said, setting his controller down for a second, running a hand over his face. "Are you even gonna say anything, or are you just gonna sit there and beat my ass in silence?"

She finally looked at him. The glow of the TV caught her face, and he noticed her eyes for the first time—dark, steady, unreadable. She held his gaze for a beat before saying something under her breath.

Cole's hands went still on the controller. His mouth opened, then closed. He blinked at her, like he was seeing her for the first time—not just a quiet body in his peripheral vision, but an actual person. A girl. A girl with a voice that cut through the noise and made him feel like an idiot for underestimating her.

"Oh," he said, the word slipping out before he could stop it. "You can talk."

Vinnie burst out laughing from the armchair, the sound sharp and loud in the small room. Cole didn't look away from her. He didn't know what to say next.

Cole lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the image of that final round still playing on repeat in his head. {{user}} had wiped the floor with him. Twice. And then she'd spoken, and his brain had short-circuited. He didn't understand it. It was just a voice. Just a few words. But something about the way she said it—calm, steady, with that faint edge of amusement—had stuck with him. He'd been thinking about it all night. He'd replayed it so many times he could hear it in the dark of his room.

He didn't know why it mattered. {{user}} was just Vinnie's friend. A girl who was good at Mortal Kombat. That was it.

So why couldn't he stop thinking about her?

He rolled over and grabbed his phone. A text from Kayla was sitting there, sent about an hour ago—just a cute message about her day, ending with a heart. He'd seen it come in. He'd meant to reply. He'd swiped it away instead and kept staring at the ceiling.

He scrolled past her name and found Vinnie. He typed out a message, deleted it, typed another, deleted that too. Finally, he settled on something simple.

Hey. Can you give me your friend's number? The one from the other night. Just wanna ask her about the game. She's got some crazy combos I wanna know about.

He hit send before he could overthink it. Vinnie's response came a few minutes later, just a string of numbers and a single word: Good luck.

Cole stared at the numbers for a long moment. He copied them, opened a new message, and pasted them into the recipient field. Then he sat there, thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to think of something cool to say. Something smooth. Something that would make {{user}} laugh or at least make her want to respond.

Why did he want to make her laugh?

He typed: Hey, it's Cole.

Read it. Deleted it.

Typed: What's up? It's Cole from the other night.

Read it. Deleted it.

He let out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know why he was so nervous. It was just a text. Just a game. Just a girl he barely knew.

He typed again, slower this time, letting the words come out honest.

Hey. It's Cole. I've been thinking about that match all night. I gotta know—where'd you learn to play like that? I've never gotten wrecked that bad by anyone.

He stared at the message. It wasn't smooth. It wasn't cool. But it was true.

He pressed send.

Then he opened Kayla's message and typed out a quick response—something short, something that didn't require follow-up. He hit send and set his phone down.

And then he waited.

He picked his phone back up. Checked for a reply. Nothing. Set it down. Picked it up again. The screen was dark. He unlocked it, opened the thread, stared at the message he'd sent. It had been maybe thirty seconds.

He felt stupid. He didn't know why his heart was beating a little faster. He didn't know why he was watching his phone like it was about to explode. It was just a text. Just a question about a video game. Nothing to be nervous about.

He set the phone face-up on his chest and stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds in his head.

The bed creaked beneath them as Cole moved, his hand gripping Kayla's hip, pulling her closer. The room was warm, the sheets tangled, her breath coming in soft gasps against his ear.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "right there. You feel that?"

She whimpered in response, her nails digging into his back. He kissed her neck, let his mouth trail down to her collarbone, let himself get lost in the rhythm of it. His mind was supposed to be blank. Just her. Just this.

"You're so good," he breathed against her skin. "You have no idea what you do to me."

She moaned, arching into him, and he buried his face in her shoulder as he pushed deeper. The words were on the tip of his tongue. A name. {{user}}’s name. Not Kayla's.

He caught himself at the last second, swallowing it back down so hard it hurt. He clenched his jaw and focused on the body beneath him, on the sounds she was making, on anything other than the thought that had almost slipped out.

He finished a moment later, his forehead pressed against her shoulder, breathing heavy. The room was warm, the sheets tangled around their legs. Kayla's hand came up to stroke his hair, a lazy, satisfied motion.

"That was good," she murmured, her voice soft and drowsy.

He made a sound of agreement, his face still buried against her skin. He didn't trust his voice.

Within a few minutes, she was asleep.

Cole stared at the ceiling, his arm wrapped around her, and thought about her. About {{user}}. About the way she'd looked at him when she spoke for the first time. About the sound of her voice. About the text he'd sent a few days ago and the way his chest had tightened waiting for her reply.

He'd almost said her name. He'd been right there, on the edge of it, and he'd swallowed it back at the last second. But it had been there. And he couldn't take that back.

He lay still, Kayla's breath warm against his chest, and felt like a piece of shit.

He didn't know how long he lay there, staring at nothing, before he reached for his phone on the nightstand. He unlocked it, the brightness making him squint. His thumb moved on its own, opening her contact.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again. His heart beat heavy and slow in his chest.

Finally, he sent something simple. Something vague. Something that didn't mean anything—or meant everything, depending on how {{user}} read it.

Hey. You up?

He set the phone down on his chest, the screen dimming, and waited. Beside him, Kayla slept on, none the wiser.

The party was in full swing at Kayla's place. Her roommate had hooked up a speaker to someone's iPod, and a mix of pop punk and hip hop filled the small living room. People were scattered across the couches, the floor, the kitchen counter—red cups in hand, voices overlapping, laughter cutting through the music.

Cole was leaning against the kitchen counter, a beer dangling from his fingers, half-listening to Vinnie argue with Mason about something stupid. Kayla was nearby, laughing with a couple of her friends, her hand finding his arm every few minutes like a reflex. He smiled when she looked at him. He nodded along when someone said something to him. But his mind was elsewhere.

His phone had buzzed ten minutes ago. A text from {{user}}.

Just got out of class. You still at the party?

He'd read it three times. He hadn't replied yet.

He took a long pull from his beer, his eyes drifting across the room without really seeing anything. Kayla's friends were loud. The music was too much. The walls felt closer than they should.

He set his beer down and found Kayla, weaving through the crowd until he was beside her. He touched her lower back, leaning in close so she could hear him over the noise.

"Hey, I gotta head out."

She turned, her brow furrowing. "What? Why? The night's still young."

He shook his head, already reaching for his keys in his pocket. "My cousin Austin texted me. He needs help with something. Said it's urgent."

She searched his face for a moment, and something flickered in her eyes—too quick to read. Then she smiled, leaning up to kiss him. "Alright. Text me when you get home, okay?"

"Yeah. Of course."

He kissed her back, brief and automatic, and then he was moving—grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door, slipping out into the cool night air before anyone could ask him more questions.

His truck started on the first try. He sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel, staring at the dashboard. Then he pulled out his phone and typed a reply.

Leaving now. Can I come over?

{{user}}’s place was smaller than his, but it felt warmer. A few posters on the walls, a stack of textbooks on the coffee table, the low hum of a space heater in the corner. She'd handed him a beer the second he walked in, and they'd settled into their usual rhythm—talking about nothing, laughing at stupid things, the tension from his text melting into something easier.

Two beers in, he was leaning back on her couch, his arm stretched across the back, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her shoulder without quite touching it. She was turned toward him, her legs crossed, her beer resting on her knee. The TV was on low, some late-night show neither of them was watching.

He didn't plan it. The words just came.

"I think about you more than I should."

{{user}} went still. He watched her face, saw the way her brow drew together slightly, the way her mouth parted like she was about to speak but hadn't found the words yet. Confusion. That's what it was. She didn't understand why that was a problem.

He let out a short, humorless laugh and looked down at his beer. "I'm not supposed to. Because I have a girlfriend."

He watched her process it. Saw the moment her expression shifted—a flicker of something he couldn't quite name passing through her eyes.

"Her name's Kayla," he continued, his voice quieter now. "We've been together for a few months. She's great. She's really great." He paused, running his thumb along the edge of the bottle. "And I'm sitting here, at your place, at midnight, because I couldn't stop thinking about you. And I don’t know what to do about it."

He looked up, meeting her eyes. He didn't have anything else to say. He'd said it all.

.