Mondays, in the grand tradition of Mondays, were typically a special kind of torture. Josh and I had a long-running, elaborate bit about how they should be universally banned or, at the very least, rebranded as "Pre-Tuesday" to soften their soul-crushing blow. But today, as we crossed the sun-dappled quad, the air crisp with the scent of freshly cut grass and dying autumn leaves, the usual sense of dread was conspicuously absent. I clutched my overpriced latte from the library cart like a talisman, its warmth seeping through the cardboard sleeve into my palm.
Josh was in the middle of an impassioned soliloquy, his free hand gesticulating wildly. "—and I'm telling you, Eva, it's a fundamental disrespect for the sanctity of the weekend. A twenty-page paper? Announced on a Friday? It's like Professor Hemlock doesn't believe we have actual, breathing, non-academic lives. It's inhumane."
I took a slow sip of my coffee, the rich, bitter flavour a comforting constant. "You spent your entire 'sanctified weekend' buried in a blanket fort watching people in swimsuits have existential crises. I'm pretty sure you had the time."
He gasped, clutching his chest as if I'd fired an arrow directly into his heart. "Excuse you, Evangeline, but 'Love Island' is a nuanced sociological study. I was observing mating rituals and the fragile construction of the modern ego. I was expanding my horizons!"
"Right," I teased, bumping his shoulder with mine. "It's for your thesis. I forgot."
The massive, Brutalist-style lecture hall loomed before us, a monument to higher learning that always felt vaguely intimidating. As we approached the wide concrete steps, Josh's phone vibrated with the staccato rhythm of a fire alarm. He glanced at the screen and let out a profound, world-weary groan. "Ugh. It's the group chat. Lizzie and Taylor are at it again over who misinterpreted whose 'you up?' text at 2 a.m. And guess who's being appointed the Supreme Court of Dramatic Bullshit?"
"You," I said, grinning. "Because you secretly live for it."
"Guilty as charged," he admitted without a hint of shame, flashing me a brilliant, cheeky smile as he held the heavy door open for me. "But my services don't come cheap. You're buying the coffee next time."
The lecture hall was a cavern of tiered seating, already filled with the low, resonant hum of a hundred simultaneous conversations and the rustle of backpacks and notebooks. The air smelled of old books, floor wax, and the faint, sweet note of someone's vape pen. Josh and I moved on autopilot, sliding into our usual territory: middle row, center-left. It was the sweet spot—close enough to see the slides clearly, but far enough back to avoid the professor's probing gaze and the desperate, hand-shooting energy of the front-row scholars.
I was shrugging off my backpack, my mind still half on Josh's theatrics, when a shift in the atmosphere, a subtle pull in the periphery of my vision, made me glance over my shoulder.
And my world screeched to a halt.
There, three rows behind and to the right, was Ryker.
He was lounging back in the molded plastic chair as if it were a throne, one booted foot propped casually on the seat in front of him—which was, thankfully, empty. His dark hair was tousled, as if he'd been running his hands through it, and he wore a simple, dark grey henley that stretched taut across his shoulders. He wasn't looking at his phone or a book; his head was tilted back, his gaze fixed on some distant point on the ceiling, his expression that same, infuriatingly unreadable blend of calm detachment and hyper-awareness I remembered from the park. He looked utterly, completely at home, a predator momentarily at rest in its environment.
My breath hitched, a sharp, audible intake that was lost in the general din. The memory of his voice in the rain, his presence in the park, the way he'd said my name—it all came rushing back, drowning out the present.
"Earth to Evangeline." Josh's voice seemed to come from a mile away. He snapped his fingers softly in front of my face. "Hello? You're staring like you've just seen the ghost of Christmas Fine-As-Hell. What is it?"
I jerked my head back to face the front, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Nothing," I said, my voice unnaturally bright. "Just zoned out."
But Josh, my best friend and human lie detector, was already turning, his curiosity a tangible force. I saw the exact moment his eyes landed on the target. His eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. "Wait. No. Way." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is that…? Oh my god, it's him! Your mysterious, brooding rain god!"
"Josh, for the love of God, shush!" I hissed, feeling a hot, tell-tale flush creep up my neck and bloom across my cheeks. I desperately focused on unzipping my backpack, pretending to look for a pen I already had in my hand.
Josh leaned in, his shoulder pressing against mine. "Wow. Okay. I'll admit, my skepticism is officially wavering. The man is devastating in broad daylight. But under these soul-sucking fluorescent lights? That's a superpower. I'm impressed."
"Could you please be less you for five minutes?" I muttered, wishing I could melt into the floor.
But it was useless. My attention, against all my better judgment, was a compass needle and Ryker was true north. Throughout the professor's droning introduction to macroeconomic theory, my eyes kept drifting, pulled by an invisible, maddening tether. I watched the way he occasionally jotted a note in a black Moleskine, the effortless grip of his pen, the way the muscles in his forearm shifted with the movement.
And then it happened. Halfway through a particularly dry slide about fiscal policy, his head turned. Not a glance, but a direct, deliberate look. His storm-grey eyes locked with mine across the rows of seated students. Time seemed to stretch, the professor's voice fading into a meaningless buzz. My blood turned to ice, then fire. I should have looked away, I knew I should, but I was paralyzed. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, a mere quirk at the corner that held a universe of unspoken words. And then, with a subtle, almost imperceptible dip of his head, he winked.
I whipped my face forward so fast my neck popped. The heat in my cheeks was now a five-alarm fire.
Josh, of course, had witnessed the entire silent exchange. He let out a choked sound, a mixture of a gasp and a giggle, and dug his elbow into my side. "Oh. My. Actual. God," he breathed, his entire body vibrating with glee. "He winked! He full-on, old-school movie star winked at you! Eva, you're not just living a Wattpad story, you've been upgraded to a full-blown cinematic universe, and I demand a producer credit for emotional support!"
"If you don't stop talking right now, I will fake a seizure to get us out of here," I pleaded, sliding so low in my seat I was practically horizontal.
Josh, mercifully, fell silent, but I could feel the weight of his triumphant, knowing gaze for the remainder of the lecture. When the professor finally dismissed us, I moved with the frantic energy of a bomb disposal expert, shoving my notebook and pen into my bag with record speed.
"Okay, crisis averted, let's make a strategic retreat—" I began, standing up and turning to flee.
"Hey, Evangeline."
The voice was low, calm, and it cut through the clatter of the dispersing students like a knife through butter. It was a voice that had been living in my head for days.
I froze, my backpack strap dangling from my hand. Slowly, as if in a dream, I turned.
Ryker was standing just a few feet away, his own bag slung casually over one shoulder, his hands tucked into the pockets of a well-worn black leather jacket. He looked completely at ease, an island of stillness in the river of students flowing around him. The faint, teasing smile was back on his face.
Josh, the traitor, gave me a not-so-subtle nudge that nearly sent me stumbling forward. "I, uh… I just remembered I have a very important, previously scheduled… thing. Elsewhere," he announced, his voice dripping with false innocence. "I'll catch you later, Eva." He shot me a look that screamed 'TELL ME EVERYTHING' before practically skipping up the stairs and out the door, leaving me utterly alone in the emptying lecture hall with the one person who turned my brain to static.
"Hi," I managed. The word came out as a reedy squeak. I cleared my throat, trying again. "Hi."
He tilted his head, his gaze doing that thing again—sweeping over my face, taking in my wide eyes, my flushed skin, as if memorising my reaction. "You're free now, right?"
It wasn't really a question. It was too assured, too expectant. "Um… yeah?" I said, the end of the word lifted into a question of my own.
"Good." He took a small step closer, and I caught a faint scent of leather and something else, something clean and wild, like the air after a thunderstorm. "Come get coffee with me."
I blinked, thrown by the sheer, unadulterated boldness of it. It wasn't a request; it was a statement, delivered with a calm certainty that left no room for the usual social dances. "What, like… right now?"
He nodded once, a simple, decisive motion. "Now."
My mind raced. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible, potentially serial-killer-level idea. He was an enigma, a walking red flag of unexplained coincidences and intense stares. I glanced desperately toward the door, a silent plea for Josh to come bursting back in with a fabricated emergency.
But then Ryker's smile widened, just a fraction. It wasn't a broad, charming grin; it was a subtle, genuine curve of his lips that completely transformed his face, making him look less like a mysterious stranger and more like… just a handsome, intriguing guy asking for coffee. And in that moment, my resolve, my caution, my common sense, all crumbled to dust.
"Okay," I whispered, the agreement feeling both terrifying and inevitable.
"Great," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the space between us. He gestured toward the aisle. "Let's go."
As I fell into step beside him, walking out of the lecture hall and into the bright, uncertain afternoon, I felt a profound, tectonic shift in the universe. The mundane routine of my life—the classes, the coffee, the jokes with Josh—was receding behind me, and I was stepping into something unknown, something charged with a strange and electric potential.
And for the first time, staring at the broad shoulders of the walking mystery beside me, I had no idea if I was walking toward a dream or a nightmare.