Chapter Text
They meet in freshman seminar.
He’s perpetually late to their eight AM class, trying to sneak in and always failing. He drives her crazy because every point she makes, he counters. By week three, she’s fairly confident she could say the sky is blue and he would argue it was periwinkle just to be difficult.
She describes him to her roommates as “O Triple L” — Obnoxious Late Lacrosse Lad. (She should have said guy, but the alliteration was better.)
How does she know he plays lacrosse? Because every day, without fail, he’s wearing some version of a lacrosse team shirt. Half from the campus bookstore, half ones you could only get if you were actually on the team.
Midterms hit—fast and brutal. She’s barely survived one exam and now has a paper due in thirty minutes. All she needs is caffeine to power through the last, miserable hurdle: the works cited page.
The line at the campus café is devastatingly long. By the time she orders, she’s burning minutes she doesn’t have. Desperately scanning the room, she spots the only open seat.
Of course it’s at his table.
Of course the universe hates her.
She’s debating how many points she’ll lose for an incomplete bibliography when he glances up, and pulls out one AirPod.
“Looking for me?” he says, lazy and amused.
“Looking for a seat,” she mutters back.
He drops his gaze meaningfully to the empty chair across from him and lifts it back to her face, trying and failing to hide a grin, “I don’t bite.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says, but drops into the seat anyway and pulls out her laptop.
They studiously ignore each other until “Mira — black coffee” gets called. She retrieves it and, bolstered by the sudden rush of caffeine and sheer panic, somehow manages to turn in her paper two minutes before the portal closes.
As she’s jamming papers and chargers into her bag, phone clutched in one hand, he says suddenly, "Your name’s Mira?"
“Yup,” she says, not looking up.
“You take your coffee black?”
“Like my soul.”
He lets out a startled snort, low and rough. “Noted.” A pause, then, “I’m Drake.”
She glances at him, confused. “Nice to meet you?”
His grin spreads, slow and wicked. “Figured you should know. Easier than 'O Triple L'."
Mira freezes.
Her cheeks flush instantly, her hands going still over her bag. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says stiffly.
“I think you do.” He stands, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, still wearing that infuriating, heart-melting smile. “But I’ve got a final I can’t be late for.”
And with a wink and a casual, “See you tomorrow,” he ambles off — like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade into her morning.
Mira stands there a full beat longer than necessary, clutching her coffee, wondering what the hell just happened.
And why—despite everything—she's smiling .