I couldn't focus on my lectures that morning. My mind kept wandering back to Damien — that calm, precise man who somehow had the power to make my heart feel like it was doing somersaults without moving. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see him kneeling beside me on the sidewalk, handing me my scattered books with that faint, deliberate smile. My stomach did that thing again — the one where I wondered if I was going to float away entirely.
I tried to tell myself it was just a passing infatuation. I mean, he was… older. Ten years older, which in my head suddenly made him feel like some untouchable, polished, perfectly composed version of everything I had never been. And I was Kylee — young, naïve, a literature student who tripped over her own feet and overthought every little thing. Why would someone like him even notice me? Surely it was just a fleeting glance, a courteous gesture, nothing more. But my heart knew better.
By lunchtime, I found myself walking toward the campus café for my usual iced latte, already rehearsing what I might say if I ran into him again — though honestly, I didn't expect to. And there he was, standing by the entrance as casually as if he owned the place, scanning the menu with that quiet confidence that had already made me forget how to breathe properly. My pulse went from normal to impossible in seconds.
I froze mid-step.
"Kylee," he said.
It wasn't a question. Not a casual greeting that could be ignored. It was calm, certain, and somehow commanding — in a way that made my knees feel weak and my chest tight.
"Uh… hi?" I managed, my voice higher than normal, which I immediately regretted.
He smiled — that subtle, deliberate smile that had made me melt the first time our hands brushed over my fallen books. It was disarming, magnetic, and entirely infuriating all at once.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seat across from him.
I nodded, fumbling with my bag like a complete fool. He slid in smoothly, as if he belonged to a world I had only read about in books. I couldn't stop staring, but I told myself I was just… curious. Observant. Very mature.
We ordered our coffees, and then something strange happened. He didn't look at his phone. He didn't scroll through messages. He didn't glance around impatiently or fidget nervously. He just… listened. His hazel eyes were calm, attentive, absorbing every detail as if what I said mattered immensely.
"So," he began after a brief pause, leaning back slightly but still entirely focused on me, "what's your favorite book this semester?"
My heart skipped a beat. He remembered my major. He knew my name.
"Uh… well, I'm reading Pride and Prejudice again. It's… comforting," I said, smiling nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Comforting," he repeated thoughtfully. "I like that. Not enough people read for comfort anymore. Most people read for show."
I couldn't stop smiling. Somehow, sitting here with him felt entirely surreal. My thoughts raced, leaping from excitement to fear. Don't stare too long. Don't act like a fool. Don't… daydream in front of him. But my heart had already decided he was extraordinary.
"Do you… uh… like books?" I asked cautiously, trying not to sound foolish.
He paused, and I caught a flicker of thought in his eyes — brief, like a candle flickering in a dark room.
"I do. I've always admired people who see the world through words instead of just numbers," he said softly.
My chest tightened. That sentence, so simple, hit me harder than I expected. He didn't see me as naïve or inexperienced. He didn't see me as a college girl too young to understand life. He saw me — the real me.
For the next hour, I babbled about my classes, my favorite authors, the way I imagined my life in stories I hadn't yet lived. And he listened. He didn't interrupt. He didn't dismiss my ideas. He didn't patronize me. He simply absorbed every word like it was important — like I was important.
The café's atmosphere faded into the background. I noticed the soft clinking of cups and the distant hum of conversation, but Damien's presence eclipsed it all. It wasn't just his height, his suit, or the faint scent of cologne that lingered around him. It was the way he made the air between us feel alive, almost electric, with possibilities I hadn't dared to consider before.
By the time we left the café, I felt light-headed in the most intoxicating way. I could still feel his calm presence lingering in my mind. I imagined him walking back to wherever he had come from, perfectly composed, while I stumbled toward my dorm like a fool. And I didn't mind. Not one bit.
That evening, I replayed every detail of the meeting in my head. The way he had smiled. The way his hands were steady, confident, never fidgeting. The way his hazel eyes had lingered on me, making me feel like I mattered more than anything else in that bustling campus world. I knew it was absurd, but I couldn't stop imagining him noticing me in ways I hadn't even noticed about myself.
And then the thought hit me — that inevitable, terrifying, exciting thought:
He's ten years older than me. He probably has a life already planned out, women who are more suitable, responsibilities I can't even imagine. Why would he ever… like me?
The idea made my chest tighten. The thought of losing him before anything could even begin felt unbearable, like a knot slowly tightening in my stomach.
The next few days were a blur. Every time I walked past the library or the café, I half-hoped, half-feared I would see him again. And every time I did, my heart performed the same impossible somersault. Damien never pressured me to talk. He never acted like he owned my attention. He simply existed, and that was enough.
I found myself noticing him in little ways. The way he tucked his hair back from his forehead absentmindedly, the faint crease near his temple that hinted at experiences I would never understand, the way his voice could cut through the chatter of a crowded room yet still make me feel like we were the only two people in the world.
And in my naïve, romantic heart, I began to realize something I hadn't dared to say aloud: love didn't always have to be fireworks and chaos. It could be quiet, intentional, steady. And somehow, Damien made it feel like the most magical thing I had ever known.
That night, I lay in bed with my textbooks scattered across the floor, staring at the ceiling and imagining every detail of him — the warmth of his presence, the certainty in his gaze, the way he made me feel both safe and wildly alive. I whispered to myself:
"Maybe… maybe the love I imagined isn't what I need. Maybe the love I need… is waiting quietly for me to notice it."
And for the first time, I felt like I had noticed it.
Even as sleep threatened to pull me under, I smiled. I didn't know what the coming days would hold, and part of me was terrified of what might happen. But another, braver part of me… was ready to find out.
Because Damien wasn't just a fleeting encounter or a polite gesture. He was real. And somehow, I was certain he would be impossible to ignore.