Riley Scott was exactly where everyone expected him to be — at the center of it all, leaning against the bar with that careless grin, one hand wrapped around a red cup he hadn’t actually drunk from in the last twenty minutes. His grey hoodie was pushed up to his elbows, revealing the tanned forearms that had made more than a few girls at this very bar lose their train of thought.

Two freshman girls giggled at something he said, their eyes bright, their bodies angled toward him like sunflowers chasing light. He laughed — easy, loud, magnetic — and said something that made them blush harder. He didn’t even notice the way they looked at each other when he glanced away.

Then the door swung open.

The cold night air rushed in, and the bass seemed to drop for just a second. Riley’s eyes snapped to the entrance — a habit born from years of scanning rooms for familiar faces — and that’s when he saw you. His smile didn’t fade, but it shifted. Quieted. Became something only you would recognize.