2
Hannah
I am trying very hard not to stare at Ethan Cross.
Unfortunately, Ethan Cross is making that difficult by existing in public.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Ella murmurs beside me, her voice vibrating with the kind of delighted suspicion only a best friend can weaponize.
I don’t answer fast enough.
I’m too busy cataloging the way the morning sunlight is currently doing favors for the sandy-brown hair of the guy standing twenty yards away.
He’s leaning against the stone railing of the Langford Hall steps, a coffee in one hand and a backpack slung over a shoulder that looks like it was sculpted specifically to be leaned on.
“Oh my God, it is,” Ella says, her grin widening. “Target acquired.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just spotted a rare, majestic bird in its natural habitat.”
She glances back at him. “To be fair, you kind of did. The elusive *Pre-Medicus Hottie*. Very shy, very smart, very likely to have a high credit score and a stable 401k.”
“He’s not pre-med,” I correct, adjusting the precarious stack of books in my arms. “He’s a biology major with a health sciences concentration.”
Ella gives me a look that is pure, unadulterated judgment. “Hannah.”
“What?”
“That is just pre-med with extra syllables. It’s the same thing.”
I press my notebooks tighter against my chest and keep walking, because stopping would be an admission of guilt.
Stopping would make it look like I care.
Which I do. Deeply. Embarrassingly. With the kind of quiet, intense commitment usually reserved for mastering a sourdough starter or rescuing a dying houseplant.
Ethan laughs at something one of his friends says, his head tipping back slightly.
Even from this distance, his smile looks like a toothpaste commercial—white, straight, and impossibly polished.
He’s wearing a navy quarter-zip that screams *I’m going to be a very successful pediatrician one day*, and jeans that fit him far better than jeans have any right to fit a man at nine in the morning.
Some people are just put together. Ethan is one of them.
I, meanwhile, am currently fighting a losing battle with a half-zipped tote bag and a laptop that is slowly sliding toward its doom.
“He looks good today,” I breathe before my internal filter can catch the words.
Ella snorts. “Today? You’ve said he looks good in rain, snow, and once while he was aggressively eating a banana in the dining hall.”
“That banana incident was a test of my character.”
“You said he chewed ‘attractively.’ I’m still traumatized by that sentence.”
“I hate that you remember things,” I groan, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
“It’s my gift. And your crush is my entertainment.” She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Seriously, though. Go talk to him. Just a casual *‘Hey, Ethan, how’s that anatomy lab?’* followed by a hair flip.”
“I don’t flip my hair, Ella. I’d probably hit myself in the eye.”
“Then just wave. Use your words. You’re a literal English minor; surely you have a few of them lying around.”
I look back at him. My heart does this weird, frantic little flutter, like it’s been waiting backstage for a cue it doesn’t know yet.
I wish he would look over. I wish, just once, he’d spot me across the quad and pause.
I wish his face would change the way mine does—like the world just got a little brighter and significantly more organized.
He knows me. Technically. We’ve shared a few conversations in the back of a lecture hall. He’s the kind of guy who actually says *pardon me* when he needs to slide past you in the row.
*Hannah, right?* Two words. I have built a cathedral of hope on two words.
“Maybe he doesn’t think I’m interested,” I mused.
Ella stops dead in the middle of the brick path, forcing a group of freshmen to swerve around us. “Babe.”
“What?”
“You turn into a human hibiscus every time he says your name. If you were any more obvious, you’d be a neon sign.”
“I do not.”
“Last week he asked if the seat next to you was taken and you turned so red I almost called campus health.”
“The room was warm!”
“It was February. There was a draft.”
I adjust my grip on my books, the corner of my laptop digging into my forearm. “It’s fine. I’m playing the long game.”
“The long game is for people who have decades, Hannah. We graduate in two years. At this rate, you’ll be confessing your feelings at the ten-year reunion while he’s showing you pictures of his golden retriever.”
I sneak another look. This time, his gaze shifts. For one impossible, heart-stopping second, Ethan looks in my direction. My entire body goes still.
His mouth curves. A small, polite smile. Directed right at me.
“Smile back!” Ella whispers through her teeth. “Don't just stare like a gargoyle!”
I force my face into what I hope is a 'charming co-ed' expression and not 'woman witnessing a crime.' Ethan lifts a hand in a casual wave before turning back to his friends.
My chest feels like someone just lit a sparkler in it. “See? Progress.”
“He acknowledged your existence,” Ella says, falling back into step with me. “That’s a baseline.”
“It’s a start.”
But even as I say it, the brightness dims. I know Ella’s right. I know Ethan is just… nice. He’s the kind of guy who is nice to everyone. The kind of guy who is 'safe.' And safe is exactly what I want. Ethan feels like he’d be careful with a girl.
Then the bell tower chimes.
Once. Twice. Three times.
My blood goes cold. I yank my phone out of my back pocket, nearly dropping my pen in the process. *9:45.*
“Oh, no,” I gasp.
“Your psych lecture?” Ella asks, her eyes widening.
“Started five minutes ago. And Professor Hale locks the door.”
“Run!”
“I can’t run with ten pounds of academia!”
“Scurry with purpose! Go!”
I take off across the quad in a frantic, undignified shuffle-run. My laptop is sliding, my tote bag is flapping against my hip, and I’ve resorted to sticking my pen between my teeth because I ran out of hands three seconds into my sprint.
I need to cut through the athletic building breezeway. It’s the only way to shave two minutes off the trip.
I duck into the building, the air instantly cooling as the smell of ice and rubber mats hits me. My sneakers squeak rhythmically against the polished floors. I weave around a group of guys in Northwood Hockey hoodies, my focus entirely on the exit at the end of the hall.
My tote bag slips. I hitch my shoulder up, trying to save it, and the pen in my mouth wobbles.
I’m so busy trying to manage my own personal chaos that I don’t see the shadow coming around the corner.
I hit something. Hard.
It’s not like hitting a wall. It’s like hitting a warm, solid, immovable mountain that smells like expensive laundry detergent and fresh air.
My body bounces backward with a startled, muffled squeak.
My books don’t just fall; they undergo a choreographed explosion.
Notebooks flutter like dying birds. My laptop slides across the floor with a terrifying *skritch* sound.
My tote bag thumps against the ground, and for one horrifying second, I think I’m going to join it.
A large, firm hand closes around my upper arm, steadying me before I can hit the tiles.
“Whoa,” a deep, rumbling voice says. “Easy there.”
I look up. And up. And then just a little bit further.
Oh, hell.
It’s Nate Wilder.
I know the face because everyone knows the face.
It’s currently the most famous jawline on campus, mostly because it’s usually attached to some sort of trouble.
He’s tall—frustratingly tall—with messy, dark blonde hair and eyes the color of a stormy sea.
He’s wearing a black team hoodie that stretches across a chest that I can now personally attest is made of solid granite.
I realize I still have a pen clamped between my teeth. I spit it into my hand, my face heating up so fast I’m surprised the sprinklers haven’t gone off.
“You’re… very solid,” I blurt out.
Nate’s mouth curves into a slow, devastating smirk. He lets go of my arm, but he doesn’t move back. He stays right in my space, looking down at me with an expression that is far too amused.
“Noted,” he says, his voice like velvet over gravel. “Three stars for structural integrity?”
I want to die. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking—I’m late—I’m just a disaster.”
“Clearly.” He doesn’t say it meanly. He says it like he’s watching a particularly interesting show.
Before I can start scrambling, Nate drops into a crouch. He starts gathering my papers with a level of grace that shouldn't belong to someone that big. I drop down too, our hands reaching for the same psychology notebook at the same time.
Our fingers brush.
It’s just a second of contact, but a jolt of electricity zips up my arm so fast it makes my breath hitch. I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned.
Nate pauses, his hazel eyes flicking up to mine. He lingers there for a beat before he hands me the notebook.
“Psychology of Human Behavior?” He reads the cover, his brow arching. “Is that what you were doing? Testing my reactions?”
“I was testing the floor,” I mutter, stuffing the notebook into my bag. “The floor won.”
He laughs. It’s a low, genuine sound. “Running from a crime scene, or just late for class?”
“Hale’s lecture. He locks the door at 9:47.” I check my phone. *9:48.* “And I’m officially locked out. Fantastic.”
I slump back against the wall, still sitting on the floor. Nate doesn’t get up either. He stays crouched in front of me, balanced on the balls of his feet.
“Hale is a hard-ass,” Nate agrees. “But he’s a sucker for a good excuse. Tell him you were saving a kitten from a tree. Or that you ran into a brick wall. Technically, you did.”
I look at him—really look at him. Up close, Nate Wilder is a problem. He has a small scar near his eyebrow and a dimple in his left cheek that feels like a personal attack on my sanity. He’s the exact opposite of 'safe.'
“You’re the hockey guy,” I say, the realization finally catching up to my brain. “The one on the… truck.”
Nate’s expression shifts. The amusement doesn't vanish, but it gains a weary edge. “Ah. So you’ve seen the highlights.”
“Hard to miss. It was the top post on the campus feed.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he says dryly. He stands up in one fluid motion and offers me a hand.
I hesitate, then take it. His palm is warm and calloused, his grip firm as he hauls me to my feet like I weigh nothing at all. He doesn’t let go immediately. He waits until I’m steady, his thumb brushing against the back of my hand in a way that makes my stomach do a slow, dangerous somersault.
“I’m Hannah,” I say, finally finding my backbone.
“I know.”
I blink. “You do?”
Nate’s smirk returns, sharper this time. “You’re the girl who color-codes her notes in the back of Anatomy. I’ve sat behind you a few times. Your handwriting is terrifyingly neat.”
My heart stops. Then restarts at double speed. “You noticed my handwriting?”
“I noticed the girl,” he corrects softly.
The air in the hallway suddenly feels very thin. I should leave. I should be thinking about Ethan Cross.
But Nate is still looking at me, and for the first time in my life, I feel… seen.
“Well, Hannah,” he says, stepping back and tossing his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Try not to weaponize your notebooks on the way back. Some of us have a season to finish.”
“I’ll try to keep my ‘structural integrity’ to myself,” I retort, a spark of unexpected sass bubbling up.
Nate grins—a real, wide grin that reaches his eyes. “I like the sass. Suits you.”
He starts walking away, but stops after a few paces, looking back over his shoulder. “See you in Anatomy. Don’t be late to that one. I think I’ll sit a little closer next time.”
I watch him go, my heart hammering against my ribs.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
**Ella:** *Did you make it?? Is Hale being a dick??*
I stare at the screen, then back at the empty hallway where Nate Wilder just disappeared. I slowly type back:
**Hannah:** *I missed the class. But I think I just ran into something a lot more complicated than a psychology lecture.*