Barely there.
Enough.
Electricity slams through me like five years collapsed into a single second. The same static. The same awareness that this girl rewires my nervous system without trying.
I pull back before it becomes something bigger.
Her pupils are blown wide.
Mine probably are too.
Around us, the room hums louder — whispers, curiosity, the story already spreading.
I don’t care.
Because for the first time since she walked out from behind that curtain?—
I didn’t freeze.
And that changes everything.
The second I pull her toward the corner table, the room shifts.
It’s subtle — chairs scraping softer, conversations lowering half a decibel — but it’s there.
Stanford athletes don’t miss drama.
And right now?
We’re the headline.
I guide her into the chair across from me. No one joins us. No one interrupts. They just watch from a distance like we’re some kind of wildlife documentary.
My phone starts vibrating almost immediately.
Then hers.
We both glance down.
Group chats exploding. Mentions. Probably already a blurry TikTok from across the room.
I reach forward and flip mine face-down.
Then I take hers gently from her hand and do the same.
She blinks at me.
“Bold,” she says.
“Necessary.”
I stretch my hand across the table, palm up.
She stares at it like it’s radioactive.
“Chicken?” I ask lightly.
Her eyes snap up.
