I look up and blink.
Because the guy crouching beside me—already scooping up my spiral notebooks carefully like they’re made of glass—is definitely not some distracted freshman. He’s older. Confident. The kind of handsome that makes your brain short-circuit a little. Tousled dark hair, warm brown eyes, strong jaw, expensive-looking watch peeking out from under a rolled-up sleeve.
He offers me a crooked smile. “Didn’t see you there.”
“That’s kind of obvious,” I say, wincing as I gather the last of my flash cards.
“Let me help—please,” he says, already doing it.
His fingers brush mine as we reach for the same book, and something sparks in my chest, uninvited and inconvenient.
He hands me the copy ofGame Theory and the Human Conditionlike it’s a rare treasure, thenstands, shooting me a sheepish smile.
“I’m Jack Taylor,” he says.
“Ellie Thomas.”
“Nice to meet you, Ellie.” His smile spreads, disarming and boyish. “I owe you an apology and maybe a new stack of index cards. Let me walk you to your dorm?”
I hesitate, glancing down at the mess I’ve mostly gathered.
“I insist,” he adds, slinging his messenger bag across his shoulder. “You look like you carry the weight of five majors in that backpack. It’s the least I can do.”
I find myself nodding before I’ve even decided.
We leave the library together, walking into the late afternoon glow, and just like that, I’m doing something I never do—chatting with a stranger.
But Jack isn’t exactly a stranger anymore.
He asks what I’m studying. I tell him economics and statistics. He says that explains the flash cards. I admit I make one for every lecture. He grins and calls it “charmingly obsessive.”
He’s in his final year of law school. Wants to go into property law, whatever that means. He’s from Boston, plays squash, quotes Hemingway without sounding smug, and laughs when I confess that I still don’t fully understand compound interest despite having aced the exam.
By the time we reach my dorm, fifteen minutes have passed like a second.
I stop at the front steps. He does too.
“Well,” I say, already fumbling for the keys in mypocket. “Thanks for not letting me eat concrete back there.”
He leans against the railing, eyes warm. “I should be thanking you. Best part of my day, bumping into you.”
I laugh, half-nervous. “You sure you’re not concussed?”
“No,” he says, eyes lingering. “Just stunned.”
Then, without missing a beat:”I’d like to see you again.”
My heart lurches.
“What?”
He smiles. “You’re smart, funny, and... probably the most beautiful girl on campus. I’d be an idiot not to ask.”
My cheeks flush. I nod, almost on autopilot. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”
He pulls out his phone. We exchange numbers. He types mine in slowly, like he doesn’t want to forget it.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
