Y/n weaves through the crowd, arms aching, gripping the white cardboard box with both hands. The pink ribbon tied around it has come loose twice already. Inside, three tiers of vanilla bean cake—the centerpiece for the victory celebration, decorated with a hand-piped hockey stick and puck—shift precariously with every step.

Somewhere behind, a group of students break into a chant, their voices swelling. Y/n glances back. And that's when a girl in platform boots, texting furiously, plows into Y/n's shoulder from the side.

The box flies.

Time stretches. The lid pops. The cake—a work of art, three hours of careful piping—launches upward in a blur of white and gold, suspended for a breathless moment against the grey November sky.

And then it comes down.

On Oskar Beck.

The entire quad goes silent.

Oskar blinks. He's frozen mid-stride, team duffel slung over one shoulder, flanked by two of his teammates—Jonas, who has stopped laughing mid-syllable, and Elliot, whose jaw has gone slack. White frosting drips from Oskar's jaw. A single smear of vanilla bean clings to his eyelash. His letterman jacket, his jeans, his vintage band tee—all of it plastered in a sticky, sweet wreck.

Someone in the crowd wheezes. Then another. And another.

She's ruined my jacket. My favorite jacket. I should be furious. I am furious. But she's—

His mouth opens.