Joren moved like a possessed man.
Toothbrush in one hand, deodorant in the other, backpack half-zipped, brain still buffering. He brushed fast—like his GPA depended on it (well, it actually did, but i won't bore you with all of that)—and slapped on deodorant like it was armor. No breakfast. No deep thoughts.
Dale didn't say much. Just turned back to his anime, a small smile tugging at his lips as Joren scrambled around like a a lost soul.
8:37 a.m.
Joren bolted out the door.
The sun hit him like a flashbang. He squinted, cursed, and kept moving. His legs were awake now. His lungs working overtime. He dodged slow walkers, leapt over a puddle, and ignored the guy handing out flyers like his life depended on it.
8:54 a.m.
He made it.
The lecture hall loomed ahead, and standing near the door was the lecturer—arms crossed, eyes scanning like a hawk waiting for prey. He looked like he had something diabolical in store for the first latecomer.
Joren walked in.
The lecturer frowned.
Not because Joren was late.
But because he wasn't.
Joren scanned the room, spotted Zuri, and made a beeline for the empty seat beside her.
"Hey," she said, soft smile.
"Hey," he replied, trying to sound chill.
He sat down, his heart still racing, trying to look like he hadn't just sprinted through five layers of campus. Zuri didn't comment. She just opened her notebook and clicked her pen like a responsible adult.
The lecture began. The lecturer started yapping—something about postmodernism and societal decay. Joren tried to listen. Zuri tried harder. They both failed slowly.
Twenty minutes in, Joren's eyelids became heavy. His head dipped. His grip on his phone loosened.
Then—thud.
His phone hit the floor. Screen-first. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the lecture hall.
Joren snapped awake like someone had poured cold water on his soul, eyes wide with panic and dread.
His hand was empty. His phone was gone. The sound of it hitting the floor echoed in his head.
He dove down, heart pounding. It was a screen-first impact.
He grabbed the phone and flipped it over, bracing for the worst. Cracks, shattered glass, or the screen coming off entirely.
But no.
Not a scratch.
Plot armor had done its thing. He exhaled slowly as his tense shoulders relaxed.
Zuri had turned to look at him, one brow raised, lips twitching like she was holding back a laugh.
He gave her a sheepish look. She shook her head, amused.
He sat up.
And then he saw them.
Zuri's thighs.
She was wearing a short skirt—not scandalous, just... efficient. Her lower thighs were visible, plump and smooth.
His eyes lingered.
He knew he shouldn't. He knew it was dumb. But his brain was still half-asleep and his thoughts were running on impulse.
He imagined touching them. Just a light graze. Nothing wild.
Would she get mad? Maybe. Maybe not. They'd been talking for a while. Dale even said she might like him. And Dale was rarely wrong.
His hand twitched.
He looked at her face. She hadn't moved. But her eyes had flicked down. She saw the shift. She noticed.
She didn't say anything.
Joren took that as a sign.
His hand crept closer.
Closer.
Closer...
The lecturer's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Mr. Joren, I assume your phone incident hasn't affected your ability to focus?"
Joren froze.
Zuri turned away, biting her lip to suppress a laugh.
He cleared his throat.
"No, sir. All good."
The lecturer stared for a moment longer, then continued.
Joren sat up straighter, hand retreating like it had just committed a crime. His heart was thumping. His face was warm. His phone was safe. His dignity? Mostly intact, for the moment.
Zuri leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for him to hear.
"Lucky you."
He glanced at her, unsure if she meant the phone or the hand.
Either way, he wasn't touching anything else today (Or would he?)