Chapter Text
You’re being haunted.
You see him everywhere— in your peripheral vision as you walk to class, in line ahead of you at the campus grocery, playing catch with his friends on the green. Little flashes of him, enough to wonder if your brain is projecting his face onto strangers to simulate familiarity, not enough to make you think he’s stalking you.
The first time you saw him, it was from a distance, as he always is. You (in search of coffee on your way to class, measly, mortal) slowed your steps, trying to get a better look at him (striding through campus, built like a brick shithouse, a god on earth). You saw spiky hair— a muscle tee and athletic shorts— well-used running shoes pounding the pavement. You realized the veracity of the myth that Californians are more attractive people on average, or maybe that he just upped the hotness level of whichever locale he chose to grace with his presence. Then he was gone, likely on a morning run while you sought artificial energy after a late night studying.
You pick up pieces of him over days and weeks and months, fitting them together in an odd jigsaw puzzle of recognition each time you cross paths. His back and shoulders are broad, well-defined; you know this because he favors going sleeveless in the heat of early fall in California. His skin is deeply tanned and it comes to near glowing in the morning light; his eyes are the color of black coffee and just as intense. He’s always polite to food service workers, always calls a cheerful word of thanks as he makes his way out the door, one large hand raised in farewell.
He may be the spectre haunting you, but you’re fairly certain you die the day you meet him. You’re late for class, your bag swinging in your hand as you half-walk, half-run toward your destination. You glance at your phone, checking the time, and that moment of inattention knocks you right into a solid body, your left side bumping against his right, sending you off-kilter. You stumble, and your bag, unluckily unzipped, drops; papers flutter out and pens clatter on the sidewalk. You apologize quickly and multiple times, keeping your eyes trained on the ground as you bend down and try to collect your items as fast as possible without completely crumpling all of them. Instead of muttering an acceptance and moving on to wherever he has to be, the victim of your clumsiness kneels next to you, holding your papers and shuffling them into a neat stack so you can maintain some semblance of organization.
“Thank you—” you start, choking on your breath when you look up at the stranger. You’ve never gotten a clear image of his visage before, only an impression of his eyes and his strong bone structure, but now he’s inches from you, holding out your papers and a few pens. “So much,” you finish, half-breathless.
You mentally add a few more details to your puzzle. His gaze is still piercing and even a little intimidating, but he’s got his lips turned up in a sympathetic smile, his eyes laughing and friendly. His nose is slightly hawkish, which you’ve always liked. The planes of his face are as pleasing to the eye up close as from in a distance. He’s handsome, but not unsettlingly so, which only makes him more handsome. You feel dizzy, or maybe the word is ditzy.
“Don’t mind it,” and his voice is low and a little rough. Your picture feels near complete. He stands first, and you follow swiftly, bending out of your crouch to look him in the eye.
“Seriously, I really appreciate it. Have a good day,” and you’re still late, so you adjust your grip on your bag and walk away, not wanting to inconvenience him further.
That’s the day you develop a crush on him, nameless though he may be to you.
By the time you see him next, you’ve convinced yourself that it was a fluke, that he was merely a decent-looking guy who’d stopped to help you, that you had been suffering from an abundance of anxiety that day that caused you to file him under hot strangers I daydream about, occasionally. It’s hot again today and he’s still heart-stoppingly handsome. You hear a snatch of his voice, low and rough, as he speaks rapidly, a little harshly, to someone over the phone, the device pressed between the sharp line of his jaw and a broad shoulder as he strides along the sidewalk toward the events center. An athlete, you think. Checks out.
He turns his head, looks at you, and sparks race up your spine and out over your skin. You look him over, deliberate and inventorying, and his steps slow just barely as he passes you, the sun gleaming white in your eyes for a moment. When you blink away the remnants of the shine, he’s deep into the distance, sliding his phone into his pocket and nearly jaunting, his posture a little more relaxed and his step a little peppier than it had been moments ago.
Your not-run-ins grow more frequent after that. Once, he watched you as you passed his table in the library, your head held high and your adrenaline spiking with the knowledge that he was looking at you. You’re not sure when denial fades into acceptance, but you eventually come to the understanding that your bizarre little crush isn’t going anywhere.
Everyone has one, don’t they? You haven’t been on a date in a while; who has time for that, really? Not UCI students. Mostly, you haven’t met anyone new recently and you have no interest in any of your friends, nor in forcing a connection. You’re here to build a career.
That means that while you’re trying to build that career by paying attention during even the most boring of classes, unexpected fantasies of the nameless deity creep up on you. You ponder his name, his relationship status, which sport he plays. He’s your choice of daydream, your favorite flavor of fairy tale.
He doesn’t feature in your thoughts enough to be creepy, you hope, although Aika, your roommate in the dorms freshman year and in your apartment now (as well as your closest friend at university) knows about him. This, of course, is the hallmark of all hopeless crushes and ridiculous fantasies, and you tried the very best you could to keep it to yourself before she weaseled it out of you.
He crosses your mind every few days, perhaps, maybe once a week if you don’t see him. Still, Aika, accursed possessor of a sixth sense, has somehow actually spent so much time with you she’s begun to absorb your braincells and can read your mind to your innermost thoughts about the man.
That’s the only reason you can possibly think of, standing next to her in leggings and a sports bra, staring at the unnamed numen of casual crushing, that explains why the boxing class she dragged you to is led by none other than he.