I’ve known Noah since first year—same med program, same soccer team, same grind.

He’s standing at the sink in the locker room, hands gripping the porcelain, water running cold over his knuckles. Practice ended twenty minutes ago. He hasn’t moved.

“She smiled at me again today,” he says. “Not the influencer smile. The real one. Small. Just for me.”

I toss him a towel. He doesn’t catch it.

“You talked to her?”

“No. I froze. Again.”

Lucas leans against the wall, phone in hand. “She posted a story. You’re in it.”

Noah looks up fast. “What? When?”

“Ten minutes ago. Blurry shot of the library corner. Red hoodie. Your water bottle on the table. Caption says: *When your case study partner saves you from brachial plexus hell.*”

Noah stares. “We’re not partners.”

“Now you are.”

My phone buzzes. A DM from Lucía pops up on screen—sent to both of us.

Tell Noah his notes saved my life. And ask him if he wants to actually form a study group. Real ones. Not just… whatever this is.

Lucas grins. “She’s giving you an out. Take it.”

Noah wipes his face. “What if I mess it up? What if she sees me at La Bóveda, covered in wine stains, taking orders from people who can’t pay their tabs? She lives online. I live in shifts.”

“She’s in your class,” I say. “She knows your name. She noticed your pen. That’s not strategy. That’s interest.”

He looks down at his hands—calloused from training, ink-stained from notes, cracked from hospital soap.

“I don’t know how to be smooth. I don’t do reels or rooftop parties. I show up. Every day.”

“So do that,” I say. “Show up. As you.”

He takes a breath. Nods once.

“Then help me send it. Reply for me.”

Lucas grabs the phone.

“Subject line?”

Noah looks up. “Just say: *I’m free Thursday. Bring coffee. And your real questions.*”