Psych intro is in one of those cavernous lecture halls—stadium seating, a podium that makes the professor look tiny. I grab a seat in the middle, pull out my notebook, try to focus on something other than the mess in my head.
The lecture's about to start when the back door bursts open.
A girl with blonde hair—messy braid—comes stumbling in, too loud, too late. Everyone turns. Her face goes red, and she drops into the seat next to me like she's hoping the floor will swallow her whole.
"Hey," she whispers, already rummaging. "You don't have painkillers? Or a Band-Aid?"
She lifts her pant leg. A gash on her calf—not huge, but still seeping blood.
"Oh god." I grab my bag, pull out the first-aid kit I always carry. "Here."
"Thanks. I'm Cathy." She cleans the wound quickly, efficiently. "I would have been on time, but I live in the other dorm and I bike to class. Some asshole in a car clipped me and I ate shit on the pavement."
"That's awful. Did you see who?"
She points toward the front row. "Him. First row, far right."
I look.
And my stomach drops through the floor.
Alex. Sitting in the front row. Like nothing happened. Like he didn't just hit someone and keep driving.
I grab my textbook and hold it up, blocking my face. My heart hammers. I know my expression is doing that thing again—the thing I can't control—and I don't want him to see.
Cathy notices. "What? You know him?"
"No." Too fast. "I mean—no. I don't."
"That's Alex Pierce." She says it like I should know. "His dad is Brad Pierce. The real estate guy? Like, the real estate guy. Owns half the city."
I say nothing.
"Lucky me, getting hit by that family." She laughs, hollow. "You don't mess with the Pierces. They're nasty if you cross them. And they're about to merge with the Carringtons—the oil family? So they'll be even more untouchable."
Carrington.
"Wait," I say. "Rachel Carrington?"
Cathy raises an eyebrow. "You know her?"
"She's my roommate."
"Oh, honey." Her tone shifts—pity and warning, tangled. "The Carringtons are... connected. Like, connected connected. As in, if you piss them off, you might literally disappear. No trace. Nothing."
I must look terrified, because she suddenly bursts out laughing.
"I'm kidding! God, your face." She waves a hand. "Mostly kidding. But seriously? Stay in your lane. Don't get tangled with those people."
I nod. Try to smile. Fail.
She turns back to the front. I lower my book just enough to see Alex's silhouette in the front row. He's not looking at me. Not looking at anything. Just staring ahead, still as stone.
I think about Rachel's I know. About the way Alex barely glanced at her. About Cathy's cut leg and the car that didn't stop.
I think about all of it. And I wonder what I've walked into.
After psych intro that day, Cathy catches my sleeve before I can disappear.
"Come eat with me. That Italian place I mentioned. My treat."
I almost say no—old habit, the reflex of someone who's used to counting pennies. But something in her voice, the ease of it, like feeding me is just what friends do, makes me nod instead.
The restaurant hides between a bookstore and a shuttered pharmacy, but inside it's another world. Low light. White linen. Real candles flickering on every table, the kind someone actually lights by hand. Cathy waves at the host.
"My parents brought me here last month," she says, sliding into a booth by the window. "Owner's a family friend. Best pasta this side of the Atlantic, apparently. Not that I've been to the other side, but—you know."
I nod, taking it in. Cloth napkins. Silverware that weighs something. The kind of place where you check the menu before you check the prices.
That's when I see it. Taped to the register, handwritten on cardstock:
HELP WANTED—SERVERS. INQUIRE WITHIN. $15/HR + TIPS.
I stare longer than I mean to.
Cathy follows my gaze. Then tilts her head, those blue eyes sharp. "You need a job?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "I mean—I'm fine, I just—"
"I could put in a word." She shrugs like it's nothing. "The owner's been looking for someone he can trust. Half the campus has applied, but he's picky. Old-school. You must know some guy like him."
I don't, actually. But before I can answer, she's up and pulling me toward the back.
"Come on. Let's go meet him."
The kitchen smells of garlic and something sweet—caramelizing, maybe. A man with graying temples and a sauce-stained apron stirs a massive pot. Cathy taps his shoulder, and when he turns, his face opens into a grin.
"This is Hannah. The one I told you about."
They talk—him in accented English, me answering, Cathy chiming in. He seems warm. The kind who probably hugs his regulars.
Cathy glances at me. "Free Monday afternoons?"
"I have class. Tuesday, though—"
She murmurs something to him—Italian, I think. He nods, says a few words back, and then she turns to me, smiling.
"Tuesday works. He said you can swap shifts if something comes up, just give him a heads-up. Congrats—you're hired."
I blink. "That's it?"
"That's it."
On the walk back, I keep thanking her. She keeps waving it off. Finally: "Next time, I'm buying. All-you-can-eat sushi. I don't care what it costs."
She laughs. "Deal."
Weeks blur.
I find a rhythm: classes, library, dorm, restaurant. Repeat. Rachel's gone most nights—sometimes I wonder if she even sleeps here—but when she's around, she's usually under. The smell of alcohol clings to her like a second skin. But she doesn't bother me, and I don't bother her. Ships passing in the dark.
The restaurant grows on me. The money's not much, but it's something. And the free food—day-old bread, the occasional "extra" lattes—feels like a small luxury I never expected.
I'm carrying a cappuccino to a table by the window—table seven, my section, a solo diner who's been reading the same page of his book for twenty minutes—when something outside snags my eye.
Movement. Gestures. Two people on the curb.
Through the big glass window facing the street, I see them.
Rachel and Alex.
They're standing by a car—a Maserati, sleek and black, the kind that costs more than my dad's house and probably more than my dad's entire retirement fund. It's parked at the curb, like it doesn't even need to ask permission.
Rachel's in a black cocktail dress that stops just above the knee. Heels that add four inches to her height. Full makeup, the kind that takes an hour to apply and looks effortless once it's done. She looks like she stepped out of a magazine—like she belongs on a red carpet somewhere, not standing on a city sidewalk arguing with a guy in a dark jacket.
But she's arguing. Definitely arguing.
Her face is twisted—disgust, exhaustion, something sharper underneath. She's holding papers, documents of some kind, waving them at Alex like they're evidence in a trial. Her free hand gestures wildly—this is what I mean, this is what you did, this is why I'm angry—and even through the glass, even from this distance, I can feel the heat coming off her.
Alex is the opposite. Still. Controlled. His jaw is tight, his shoulders rigid, but he's not matching her energy. He's absorbing it, deflecting it, talking back in short bursts that I can't hear but can almost read on his lips. No. That's not— Listen to me. You're not—
Neither of them is backing down.
Then Rachel yanks open the car door. Slides into the passenger seat. The Maserati pulls away from the curb, tires catching the late-afternoon light, and she's gone. Just like that. Disappeared into traffic like she was never there.
Alex stands alone on the sidewalk.
For a long moment, he doesn't move. Just stands there with his hands in his pockets, staring at the space where the car used to be. There's something in his posture—frustration, yes, but also something heavier. Defeat, maybe. Or the quiet kind of anger that doesn't flare up but simmers underneath, patient and dangerous.
And then he turns.
Toward the window.
Toward me.
Our eyes meet.
I know I should look away. I know I should pretend I wasn't watching, wasn't staring, wasn't cataloging every detail of their fight like it's a case study for some future psych class. But I can't move. His gaze holds mine across the glass, across the distance, and for one endless second, we're just two people looking at each other with no idea what comes next.
Then I squeeze my eyes shut.
It's instinct—the same instinct that made me hide behind my textbook when Cathy pointed him out in lecture. If I can't see him, he can't see me. If I close my eyes, this moment will pass, and I'll be invisible again.
But in that split second of blindness, my hand forgets what it's doing.
The cappuccino tips. The cup meets the edge of the table at exactly the wrong angle. And then it's falling—in slow motion, the way bad things always seem to fall—and the coffee is everywhere.
All over the table. All over the book the man was reading. All over his white sweater.
No. No, no, no—
"I'm so sorry—oh god, I'm so sorry—"
I grab napkins from the dispenser—too many, they're everywhere, wadded in my fists—and start dabbing at his sweater. White cashmere. Expensive-looking, the kind of fabric that probably came from an animal that lived better than I do. The coffee's already soaking in, dark brown spreading across his chest like a stain that will never come out. The napkins just smear it around, making everything worse.
This is bad. This is really, really bad.
"I'll pay for it," I hear myself say. The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other. "Dry cleaning, replacement, whatever it costs—I don't care, I'll figure it out—just please don't tell my manager. I need this job, I really need it, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Hey."
His voice cuts through my panic. Low. Calm. The kind of voice that doesn't need to raise itself to be heard.
"Look at me."
I don't want to. I want to keep apologizing, keep dabbing, keep trying to undo what I've done. But something in his tone makes me stop. Makes me lift my head.
He's leaning back in his chair, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. His eyes are light—amber, almost, the color of honey when the sun hits it just right. They catch the candlelight from the table, hold it, reflect it back. Brown hair, soft and slightly disheveled, a few strands falling across his forehead. Good bones—high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, a nose that's straight without being sharp. The kind of face that probably gets looked at twice, that probably gets called handsome in a dozen different languages.
He's younger than I thought at first. Maybe early twenties? It's hard to tell. There's something settled in his features, something that suggests he's seen a few things, but his skin is smooth, his brow unlined. Healthy. The kind of healthy that comes from good genes and good food and probably a good gym membership.
He's wearing a white cashmere sweater. Which is now ruined. Because of me.
But he's smiling. Just a little. Just the corner of his mouth, really. And somehow, that small movement changes everything. The hard lines of his face soften. The intensity in those amber eyes gentles into something almost warm.
"It's an old sweater," he says.
I stare at him. "What?"
"It's old. I've had it for years." He glances down at the spreading stain, then back at me. "Honestly? I was getting bored of it. This might be the most interesting thing that's happened to it all decade."
I don't understand. None of this makes sense. He should be angry. He should be demanding to speak to my manager, demanding compensation, demanding my head on a platter. Instead he's sitting there, coffee dripping from his sleeve, making jokes about his sweater being bored.
"But—"
"I mean it." He waves his free hand—the one not soaked in cappuccino. "Don't worry about it. Really."
I shake my head. "I can't just—you shouldn't have to—"
"Tell you what." He leans forward, and there's something almost conspiratorial in his gaze now. "Bring me another cappuccino. We'll call it even. Deal?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
"Deal," I manage.
He nods, satisfied, and I grab the mess—the empty cup, the soaked napkins, the ruined book that he's already set aside—and disappear into the kitchen. My hands are shaking as I wipe down the counter, as I steam the milk for a new cappuccino, as I try to compose myself before I have to face him again.
Who does that? I think. Who just... forgives a stranger for ruining their clothes?
I don't have an answer.
When I bring the new cappuccino to his table, he's gone back to his book—a new one, I realize, pulled from his bag. The stained one is tucked away somewhere out of sight. He looks up as I approach, and that small smile returns.
"Thank you."
"I'm still really sorry," I say, setting the cup down carefully. Carefully, carefully, like it might explode. "If you change your mind about the dry cleaning—"
"I won't." He picks up the cup. Takes a sip. "It's perfect. You're forgiven."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just nod, mumble something that might be "okay" or might be nothing at all, and retreat to my other tables.
For the rest of my shift, I avoid looking at him. But I feel his presence there, in my peripheral vision—a calm spot in the chaos of the dinner rush, someone who's in no hurry to leave. He nurses that cappuccino for an hour, reading his book, occasionally glancing out the window, never once flagging me down to complain or ask for anything.
At the end of my shift, I check my tips.
His table. Table seven. The slip is folded neatly under the salt shaker.
Double what anyone else left.
I unfold it. Refold it. Unfold it again. The numbers don't change.
I look toward the window, but he's gone. Just an empty table, a half-full water glass, a napkin crumpled in the center.
I stand there for a long time, staring at the space where he was.