12. Colin
COLIN
Three shots of espresso and two hours of rationalization land me where I absolutely, definitely do not belong.
The third floor of Peach State University’s main library, wedged between periodicals and a quiet study area, wearing a hoodie that used to pass for incognito before Forbes outed me as “the code gremlin prince of restaurants.” Hood up, earbuds in—classic student camouflage. Or so I hope.
I chalk my presence up to due diligence. That’s what I scrawled on the sticky note plastered over my guilty conscience. Thalassa had mentioned a monster finals gauntlet. My job—self-assigned—is to make sure she hasn’t spontaneously combusted from stress.
Purely humanitarian. Absolutely not stalking.
I circle the atrium balcony. Every table bristles with laptops, highlighter armies, and energy-drink cans. Finals week vibes hum like overclocked servers. I loop past the free coffee cart and snag a courtesy cup, because caffeine is my one true love, and then I spot her .
Table by the window. Sunshine paints her braid rose gold where it escapes the beanie with tiny rabbits. She’s bent over a diagram, pencil tapping her lower lip. The lip biting is unfair. My pulse spikes like it’s running a stress test.
I should be biting that lip.
I slide behind a bookshelf, half-concealed by Journal of Aquatic Genomics . From here I can monitor her stress indicators (frown depth, snack ration) without tripping the creeper alarm.
To prove I’m not creepy, I have instituted rules. No photos. No full name googling—not today. Engage only if she looks seconds from meltdown.
Some might call it obsessive. I call it aftercare.
I sip coffee, watch her annotate a practice exam, tongue peeking when she counts hydrogen bonds.
The overhead vent kicks on, and her braid flutters.
She tucks a loose strand behind her ear.
My brain, unhelpfully, cues last month’s breakfast, when she tasted like maple syrup and butter and possibilities.
Stop it.
I pivot to my phone, open the StarConnector sandbox, and attempt to distract myself by coding an API call.
I get through exactly eight lines before my gaze drifts back.
She’s rummaging in her bag, retrieving—aha, snack ration.
A peanut-butter sandwich. Encouraging sign.
She takes one chomp, chews like a determined chipmunk.
Then her phone flashes. She reads the screen, brow scrunching skeptical. Her shoulders slump. She does not want to take this call. Should I tap in and end it for her?
She accepts the call, stands, and heads toward the stacks for privacy. I shuffle sideways to maintain line of sight while avoiding her direct eyeline.
From twenty feet away I can’t hear words, only tone. Should have brought the parabolic with me. Next time.
She gives an initially tentative greeting, then silence while she listens. Out of nowhere, her shoulders jolt. A choked noise escapes—could be a sob? My gut drops. Her hand clutches her mouth. Tears?
Whoever it is, I’ll end them.
But then, bright laughter detonates, ringing down the aisle. She twirls once, clutching her phone. Tears, yes, but happy tears. She presses the phone to her forehead like a tiny holy relic. A wave of relief drowns me so hard I sag against the shelf, rattling the journals.
Two undergrads glare. I mime an apology.
Thalassa returns to her table, wiping her eyes and giggling.
Her friends converge—Becca with the lavender-dipped hair and a pre-med guy I don’t recognize.
They bombard her with questions. She reveals something.
If I get closer, she’ll see me. Her hands mimic a poof gesture, and they squeal. They group-hug.
They pack up their books, chatter spilling. I inch closer under audio pretense, scanning the shelf for nothing while my ears do recon.
Becca: “—trip is gonna be legendary!”
Pre-med: “Real snow, no machine fluff.”
Thalassa: “I am so buying thermal socks.”
Becca: “Mountain nights are like, negative temperatures, girl. We need matching beanies.”
There’s chatter about altitude, Airbnb hot tubs, and somebody’s influencer discount code. The Colorado ski trip is locked and loaded. My internal calendar pings. That’s the trip she saved for—the reason she braved sugar-baby territory. A satisfied warmth settles. Goal attained, apparently.
She’s happy. That’s all I needed to see.
They shoulder their backpacks and head for the escalator. I step behind a structural column, holding my breath until their laughter fades. Mission accomplished—health verified, spirits skyrocketed. Time to exfiltrate before my moral compass spins further off course.
Admittedly, there’s something heady about following someone without their knowledge. Knowing that at any moment, I could be caught. I’ve made up a dozen excuses to have at the ready in case she sees me, but in truth, I doubt a single one would come out.
I needed to know she was okay. That’s the only reason I’m here.
Ground floor exit. Winter sun slants across the quad, and students scurry in puffer jackets. I linger by a ginkgo tree, hidden by yellow confetti leaves, watching until Thalassa’s trio disappears into the humanities building.
My chest tightens like it did when I left her dorm steps that Sunday, idling at the curb. Distance doesn’t cure the magnetism. It amplifies it. But shadowing her around campus crosses lines. I’m not that guy.
Except when I am.
Could I text her? No. We’re supposed to be giving her space, letting her life resume unscripted.
I need to let the feeling burn out by itself, like leftover code in cache.
And if she gets creeped out by us contacting her, she could report us to Just Desserts and we’d never get another sugar baby off that app again.
Not the end of the world, but they’re very convenient. Or at least, they were. I don’t know about Dean or Tic, but I haven’t engaged with anyone since Thalassa’s Thanksgiving weekend.
A coffee-shop neon warms across the street. I head there, order a black drip plus an espresso float—caffeine times caffeine. Sip, replay the library scene. Her happiness pulses through me secondhand, like a weird echo of joy that paradoxically aches. My phone vibrates.
Dean. Work shit. Apparently, I missed earlier pings. Oops. He’s in the operations meeting hell. I already know how it’ll go. Marcus will crucify StarConnector. But my brain is not free for corporate cage matches right now.
I type, then delete: sorry.
Instead? Nothing. Airplane mode on.
I stake a corner table, pull out my laptop, ostensibly to debug the beta app that predicts wait times at our LA burrito bar. But my fingers refuse to code.
A pang. This obsession started as protective worry, but now it flirts with daydream territory. Me teaching her to snowboard, her cheering when I face-plant.
Not healthy.
I draft mental guidelines. No surprise drop-ins, no anonymous gifts beyond what’s done. Respect her autonomy.
Good.
But my craving doesn’t care.
By late afternoon, I’ve consumed two more coffees, rejected five Slack tags from account payables, and coded exactly zero lines. Instead, I’ve scrolled Reddit threads on flashcard advancements and browsed Colorado weather cams suspiciously near Aspen.
Stop. Now.
I pack up, intending to head home, maybe bury myself in sys-log audits until my brain reboots. Feet, however, decide on a detour. The campus quad again, down a path lined with sweet gum trees. I remind myself this is borderline.
But walking aids digestion. That’s the only reason I’m here now.
Halfway down Greek Row, I curse at myself and spin back toward the parking deck. Enough.
Dean’s text pops back to life when airplane mode lifts—another ping follows: Ops meeting done. Where the fuck are you?
I stare at the blinking cursor. I owe him an explanation, but not in my current headspace.
Needed field air. Catch up later.
Three dots, then nothing. He’s furious or worried or both. I sigh at my own incompetence. StarConnector matters, system stability matters, and yet I let hormones override.
Back at my condo, I flop on the sofa. City lights blink like network activity, each flicker mocking my offline brain. Code me, type me, make me sing. I roll my eyes at the lights, ignoring their siren calls.
Now is not the time.
Maybe what I need is an actual break. Full disconnect. No ops dashboards, no war rooms, and, crucially, no chance of “accidental” library run-ins.
Colorado? The thought bubbles before I can censor it, immediately ridiculous. Thalassa’s trip is her independence victory lap. Shadowing would trample her boundaries.
But what if I went elsewhere? Iceland, maybe? Volcano hikes, Northern Lights. Far enough to reset mental loops. I open the travel-site tab, and my finger hovers over flight search.
My phone buzzes. It’s Dean, voice call this time. Guilt tells me to answer, but self-preservation declines. I text instead:
Headache since morning. Will sync tomorrow. Promise.
He sends: Fine. Rest. Discuss numbers first thing.
I drop my phone, lean my head on the sofa back, and study the ceiling track lights until they blur. Despite my exhaustion, my mind replays Thalassa’s laugh, the way she hugs friends like they’re life rafts. That’s real balance—knowing when to cling, when to leap.
I’m stuck halfway, arms full of phantoms. Always.
Tomorrow, StarConnector. Tonight, maybe four melatonin and the hope I dream of Icelandic glaciers instead of hazel-eyed girls.
I close my eyes, inhale the city and coffee lingering on my hoodie. “Vacation,” I whisper, trying the word on. It tastes like possibility—and inconveniently, like her.
I’ll figure out distance algorithms later. For now, I let the thought play like background music. White slopes, foreign skies, and heart rate finally gliding under safe-mode limits.
More delusion? Probably. But a man can hope.