Ping.
I unlocked my phone, thumb hovering as an unknown number lit up my screen for the first time. But I knew it washer.
Unknown: Can you send me your timetable?
My lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite not. I stared at it longer than I should’ve, watching the little black letters burn into my retinas.
Then another notification slid in beneath it.
Unknown: Please.
Fuck. There it was.
That word.
From her.
Directed at me.
Even if it was typed, even if it was short, it wasmine.
My jaw flexed as I sank against the wall, staring at the glowing screen like it had just handed me the fucking universe.
Me: Only my soccer one?
Unknown: The whole thing, please.
I nearly dropped my phone.
Please.Again.
So free this time, so casual, like it didn’t mean anything. Like she wasn’t burning me alive with it.
My throat tightened as I typed back.
Me: For?
Seconds later, her reply came.
Unknown: So I know when not to disturb you.
I dragged a hand down my face, swallowing a curse. She thought she disturbed me? Fucking wrong. I’d leave a lecture, a meeting, even practice mid-drill, if it meant I got to see her, hear her,anything.And yet she thought she was a nuisance.
Pathetic. Wrong. And still, I screenshotted my entire timetable and hit send before I could stop myself.
A beat later:
Unknown: Thank you.
I squeezed the phone so tight my knuckles went white. God, she was wrecking me without even trying, without even knowing.
Why the fuck didn’t I ask for her number sooner? Why did I waste a year? I wondered if anyone else had ever asked for her number before me. The thought made something sharp twist in my chest.
I’d never admit it out loud—hell, I’d choke on the words if anyone heard me—but she’s gorgeous.
Hate to say it, but it’s true. That face of hers makes up for any flaw a woman could have. Too quiet, too timid, whatever, none of it matters when she’s standing there. It erases everything, like the world takes a breath and holds it for her.
Other men would see her and fall over themselves.
