Chapter 1: The Catch That Changes Everything
The bass was a living thing, a second heartbeat that thrummed through the soles of Miri’s worn-out Converse and rattled the ice in her red plastic cup. She clutched it with both hands like a holy relic, a flimsy shield against the press of bodies that surged and swayed around her. The air was a thick, humid soup of cheap beer, clashing perfumes, and something that might have been burnt popcorn. Neon light from a nearby fixture bled across the sticky floor in a garish smear of pink and green, catching in the lenses of her glasses and turning the chaos into a constellation of anxious, blurry stars.
She shouldn't be here.
The thought was a familiar, well-worn refrain, a comfortable sweater she could pull on in any social situation. She should be in her dorm, curled under her duvet with a book on the Black Death and a cup of tea that wasn't lukewarm and questionable. She could be tracing the lineage of some obscure Plantagenet duke instead of trying to remember how to arrange her face into something that didn't scream please don't talk to me.
Her friend Chloe had promised it would be fun. “You need to get out, Miri. Live a little! One party. Just one.” Chloe was currently on the other side of the room, her laugh a bright, clear bell cutting through the noise, her arm draped around some guy from her psych class. She had forgotten Miri existed about ten minutes after they’d walked through the door.
Miri didn't blame her. She was eminently forgettable. A four-foot-ten ghost in a baggy oatmeal-colored sweater, her dark hair escaping a messy bun in frantic wisps. Invisible.
She took a tentative sip of her drink. It tasted like regret and sour mix. A group of girls pushed past her, their giggles piercing her eardrums, and she stumbled back a step, her shoulder bumping into a towering bookshelf that served as a makeshift coat rack. A leather jacket that smelled of cigarettes and rain fell onto her arm. She disentangled herself, cheeks flushing, hoping no one had noticed.
No one ever noticed.
Her gaze drifted across the room, a sea of unfamiliar faces. And then it snagged.
He was a head above everyone else. That was the first thing she registered. A mountain of a guy with shoulders that seemed to block out the strobing lights behind him. He was laughing, his head thrown back, the easy, confident sound of it reaching her even over the thumping music. A girl with long, glossy hair was pressed against his side, her hand on his chest, but he didn't seem to be paying her much attention. His eyes were scanning the room, a lazy, almost bored sweep.
Leo Castellano.
Everyone knew Leo. You didn't have to be a part of his world to know who he was. He was the star quarterback, the guy whose face was on posters for campus events, the one who dated a different girl every other week. He was sunlight and gravity, and people like Miri were just tiny, rocky planets spinning in his orbit, unnoticed.
He was beautiful in a way that felt almost aggressive. All sharp jaw and broad muscle and a grin that promised trouble. He was the absolute antithesis of everything she was—awkward, invisible, and terrified.
She watched him for a moment, a purely scientific observation of a different species from the safety of her corner. Then, a jock with a sweaty brow and a sports jersey that looked two sizes too small for his ego backed into her, shoving her forward. Her sneaker caught on the edge of a discarded backpack strap.
The world tilted.
Her cup flew from her hands, a geyser of amber liquid and ice cubes arcing into the air. She didn't even have time to gasp before her body followed its trajectory, tumbling forward into the churning sea of legs and feet. Her glasses went askew. Her heart catapulted into her throat. She braced for the impact of the sticky, beer-soaked floor.
It never came.
Instead of a hard, filthy landing, she hit something solid and warm. An arm, thick and corded with muscle, snaked around her waist, stopping her fall dead. The air left her lungs in a startled whoosh. Her hands shot out on instinct, her fingers closing over a fistful of soft cotton. A t-shirt.
The world stopped tilting.
Slowly, dizzily, she looked up.
Her glasses were still crooked, one lens smeared with something she didn't want to identify. But she could see him. He was looking down at her, and the bored, lazy expression was gone. His eyes, a startling shade of forest green, were wide and focused. On her.
It was like one of those movie moments she always scoffed at, the kind where the camera zooms in and the background blurs out. The noise of the party—the shouting, the laughing, the thumping bass—faded into a distant, muffled hum. The only thing that was real was the heat of his arm through her sweater, the scent of him—clean laundry, a hint of cedar, and something undeniably male—and the intensity of his stare.
He wasn't looking at her. He was seeing her. It felt like being pinned under a microscope, exposed and terrifying and… thrilling.
His grip on her waist tightened, not painfully, but securely, pulling her upright and flush against his chest. Her feet barely touched the ground. Her hands were still fisted in his shirt, right over the hard plane of his pectorals. She could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under her knuckles. It was a slow, sure thrum, a stark contrast to the frantic, panicked rabbit kicks inside her own ribs.
Her glasses fogged up instantly, a warm, embarrassing curtain of condensation that blurred his face into a hazy, handsome smudge.
“Whoa there,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, and she felt it vibrate through her entire body. “You okay?”
Miri tried to speak. Her mouth was dry as dust. She opened it, and a small, strangled squeak came out. Not a word. Just a sound.
She wanted to die.
The heat in her cheeks was incandescent. She must look like a boiled lobster. And her glasses were foggy. And her hair was a disaster. And she was just… clinging to him, this mountain of a man, this Leo Castellano, who was probably used to girls with model-perfect faces and designer clothes, not clumsy, invisible history majors who smelled faintly of library books.
“I—yes. Sorry. I’m so sorry,” she finally managed to stammer, her voice a breathless whisper. She tried to push away from him, but his arm was still a solid band around her waist. She was trapped. Deliciously, terrifyingly trapped.
He didn't let go. His head tilted, a small, curious smile playing on his lips. His eyes traveled over her face, and she had the insane, impossible feeling that he was cataloging every detail. The freckle by her eye. The way her nose wrinkled when she was nervous. The frantic, tell-tale pulse beating in her throat.
“Don't be sorry,” he said, his grin widening. It was a devastating thing, that grin. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and made her stomach do a slow, dizzy roll. “I'd say a fall like that deserves a better landing. I'm Leo.”
“I—I know who you are,” she blurted out, then immediately wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
His eyebrows rose. “Oh yeah? Should I be worried?”
“No! I mean—no. Everyone knows who you are. You’re…” She gestured vaguely with her free hand, the one not still glued to his chest. “…you.”
Smooth, Miri. Real smooth.
His laugh was a low, genuine thing that seemed to start deep in his chest and rumble outward. “Right. ‘You.’ Good to meet you, mystery girl.”
She swallowed hard. “Miri.”
“Miri,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. He said it slowly, like he was tasting it. It sounded foreign and new, a name she’d never heard before. “I like it.”
He finally, finally, loosened his grip, but he didn’t let her go completely. Instead, his hand slid from her waist to her elbow, steadying her. The loss of his body heat was a physical blow, a sudden draft of cold air in the crowded room.
“I should—I need to—” She pointed vaguely toward the kitchen, toward anywhere that wasn't here, pinned under his gaze. Her brain was short-circuiting. She had to get away before she said something else monumentally stupid.
“Run away?” he finished for her, one corner of his mouth kicking up. “You just got here.”
“I… I spilled my drink.” It was the only coherent excuse her brain could supply.
“I saw.” His gaze flickered down to the puddle of beer and melted ice at their feet, then back to her face. “Let me get you another one.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He was going to get her a drink.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
But he was already moving, his hand still on her elbow, gently but firmly steering her through the crowd. People parted for him like the Red Sea. They didn’t even glance twice at her, a small, insignificant dinghy caught in the wake of his battleship. He stopped at the keg, a grimy, dented silver barrel in a trash can full of ice, and filled a fresh cup for her. He didn’t get one for himself.
He handed it to her. “Cheers, Miri.”
She took it, their fingers brushing. His were warm and calloused. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot up her arm. She almost dropped the cup again. Her hands were trembling.
“Thank you,” she whispered, staring at the foam on the beer.
He leaned in closer then, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell that clean scent of his again. Her breath hitched. The party was still roaring around them, a chaotic storm of light and sound, but in their small bubble, it was quiet. He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't decipher. It was intense, and focused, and it made her feel like the only girl in a ten-mile radius.
And for the first time in her life, a gorgeous guy was actually seeing her.
“So, Miri,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate hum. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
Before she could even begin to formulate a response, a voice sliced through the moment, sharp and cutting.
“Leo! There you are! Where the hell have you been?”
A blonde girl with a sharp, impatient face was marching toward them, her eyes blazing with territorial fury. She planted herself directly between them, effectively shattering the bubble. The blonde shot Miri a dismissive, withering glance—a look that said, Seriously? This?—before she turned her full attention back to Leo, latching onto his arm and tugging him away.
“We need to talk,” the blonde snapped.
Leo didn’t immediately follow. His eyes stayed on Miri for a beat longer, a flicker of something—annoyance? apology?—in their depths. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, and then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, the blonde still clinging to his arm.
And Miri was left standing alone.
The world rushed back in. The thumping bass, the sticky floor, the smell of spilled beer. She leaned back against the wall, her knees feeling weak. The red plastic cup was cold in her hand, a tangible anchor in the swirling chaos.
He’d seen her.
Leo Castellano, the king of the campus, had seen her. He’d held her. He’d said he liked her name.
It was a fluke. A cosmic joke. A moment of pity.
And yet…
Her heart was still racing. A wild, untamed rhythm against her ribs. It was the same frantic beat as before, but it felt different now. It felt like a spark. A tiny, fragile, terrifying flicker of something she’d never felt before. It felt like the terrifying, exhilarating possibility that, maybe, just maybe, her luck was about to change.