4

The drone of Mr. Davies’ lecture on the Industrial Revolution was a steady, monotonous hum. I was safely tucked into my own world, my pen scratching across the page as I meticulously copied down dates and inventions. This was my element.

Then, a tap on my shoulder.

It was gentle, just two fingers, but it sent a jolt straight through my spine. I froze, my pen skidding to a halt. Slowly, I turned.

And my brain short-circuited.

Asher Hayes was leaning forward, his desk uncomfortably close to mine. Up close, he was… more. His eyes were a warmer brown than I’d realized, flecked with gold in the fluorescent light. His jawline was a clean, strong line, and he had a tiny mole below his lips that made him look strangely, perfectly approachable.

He’s sitting behind me. He has been this whole time. Behind me.

I kept my face perfectly still, a skill I’d perfected over years of not wanting to draw attention. Maya called it my “resting bitch face,” but she also said my oversized glasses made it look more “startled owl” than intimidating. I hoped to God it was working now.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice low and smooth. It wasn’t a loud, attention-seeking whisper. It was just for me. “Sorry to bother you. Do you have an extra pen? Mine just died.”

My mind emptied of all coherent thought. A single, insane sentence echoed in the void: You can have all of me, Asher.

I physically bit the inside of my cheek to stop the words from tumbling out. Idiot!

“Yes,” I managed to choke out, my own voice sounding strangled. I fumbled in my pencil case, my fingers suddenly numb and clumsy. I pulled out a simple blue ballpoint, my most reliable one, and handed it to him.

Our fingers brushed. It was the briefest, most accidental contact, but a spark of pure, undiluted electricity shot up my arm.

He took the pen, and then he smiled.

It wasn’t just a polite thank-you smile. It was a full, genuine, heart-stopping grin. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners, and for a breathtaking second, I understood what people meant when they talked about charisma. It was like someone had flipped a switch and flooded the room with sunlight.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice still a whisper, but it felt like he was speaking directly into my soul.

Then he turned back to his notebook, the moment over.

I faced forward again, my entire body humming. Mr. Davies was now pointing at a diagram of a steam engine, his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear a word. The only sound was the frantic, thunderous beating of my own heart, a wild drum against my ribs.

He talked to me. He knows I exist. He touched my hand. He smiled.

I stared down at my notebook. The neat lines of my notes had been ruined by the skid of my pen. I tried to focus, to write something, anything, but my hand was trembling. The page remained blank.

For the rest of the lecture, I didn’t hear about factories or railroads or social reforms. I only replayed those ten seconds on a loop in my head. The tap. The turn. His eyes. His voice. The brush of his skin. The smile.

The entire world had narrowed to the space between my shoulder blades, where I could feel the warm, terrifying, wonderful presence of Asher Hayes sitting right behind me.

**********

“Thanks again for this,” Asher said, his voice now at a normal volume. It was just as nice. “Seriously, saved me from a detention. Davies has a thing about not taking notes.”

I took the pen, careful to only touch the plastic barrel. “It’s okay,” I mumbled, my eyes fixed somewhere on the collar of his shirt.

“I’m Asher, by the way,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He said it like he didn’t assume everyone in the entire school already knew.

“I know,” I said, then immediately wanted to throw myself out the window. I quickly corrected, “I mean, yeah. You’re the Northwood captain.” Smooth, Elliot. Real smooth.

He gave a small, humble shrug, like he was a little embarrassed by the title. “Yeah, that’s me. And you are…?”

He was asking my name. Asher Hayes was actively asking for my name. My brain scrambled to locate it. “Elliot. Elliot Reed.”

“Elliot,” he repeated, and my name had never sounded so good. “Right. I’ve seen you in here. You’re always writing like you’re transcribing the meaning of life or something. You’re, like, the most focused person in this class.”

He’d noticed me. Not just as a blur, but a specific person who wrote a lot. My face felt hot. “I just… like to have good notes.”

“Wish I had that discipline,” he said with an easy laugh. “I’m usually just trying to stay awake. Hey, listen, if I miss anything next week. We have an away game on Thursday. Could I maybe borrow your notes to copy?”

The world tilted on its axis. He wasn’t just being polite. He was asking for a future interaction. A planned one.

“Sure,” I said, my voice miraculously not cracking. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Awesome. You’re the best, Elliot.” He flashed me one more of those devastating smiles. “See you around.”

And then he was gone, swept up in the current of students leaving the room. I stood frozen by my desk, clutching the blue pen he had just given back. It felt warm.

The entire interaction replayed in my head, but this time, it was longer. It had a middle and an end. It had my name in it. It had a promise of next Thursday.

**********

The good mood was a physical thing, a warm, buoyant bubble in my chest that even the dreary weather couldn’t pop. I hummed under my breath as I wiped down the tables, the clatter of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine sounding like music. I’d replayed the conversation with Asher so many times I had it memorized, the sound of my name in his voice a constant, happy echo in my mind.

He’d noticed me. He knew my name. He needed my help.

The bell above the door chimed. I looked up, a polite, automatic customer-service smile already on my face.

And it froze there.

Jax Ryder walked in, accompanied by the same two teammates from last time. A flicker of anxiety and dread tried to spark in my gut, but it was instantly smothered by the sheer, unshakeable glow of my good mood. He could glare all he wanted. He could think whatever he wanted. For the first time, his opinion felt like a speck of dust on the shining surface of my day.

He didn’t see me at first, his attention on his friends as they argued good-naturedly about the best play from yesterday’s practice. I finished wiping the table and moved behind the counter, ready to take their order.

When it was his turn, he stepped up, his eyes already narrowing in anticipation of our usual silent, hostile transaction. But this time, I met his gaze. I didn’t look away. I didn’t flinch.

“What can I get for you?” I asked, my voice clear and steady. Neutral. Professional.

He seemed thrown for a second. His brow furrowed slightly, the prepared script of contempt disrupted. He was probably expecting me to cower, to look at the floor, to be the shrinking victim he was used to.

“Uh. Three large coffees. Black,” he said, the words coming out a bit slower than usual.

“Sure thing,” I said, turning to the grinders. I moved with an efficiency I didn’t usually feel when he was here. I measured the beans, pulled the shots, my movements smooth and confident. The warm, bitter scent of espresso filled the air around me.

I could feel his eyes on me.

I placed the three steaming cups on the counter. “Will that be all?”

He just stared at me for a second, his green eyes searching my face for a crack that wasn’t there. He must have found nothing but calm neutrality because his lips tightened in a faint line of irritation.

“Yeah,” he muttered, slapping a bill onto the counter.

I made his change, handed it over, our fingers avoiding any contact this time. “Have a good one,” I said, the common, meaningless pleasantry falling from my lips without a second thought.

His eyes flickered with something I couldn’t name. He gave a short, gruff nod, collected the coffees, and turned away.