Elliot, the human equivalent of a golden retriever who somehow possessed the upper body strength required for competitive swimming, squinted from behind sunglasses roughly the size of small dinner plates. He was at a frat house pool party – a glorious symphony of questionable life choices, ear-bleeding music, and enough glistening, slightly-too-tanned bodies to trigger a sensory overload. Usually in his element as the perpetual ray of sunshine, probably attempting to teach someone to fetch or wrestle-tickle his teammates into submission, his internal wattage felt dimmer today, overshadowed by a force more potent than stray pubes in the drain: you.

You. He knew your name thanks to extensive, borderline-creepy (but totally harmless, tail-wagging way) reconnaissance. A freshman creature of pure caffeine, skepticism, and what appeared to be a constant undercurrent of 'is this all there is?' You possessed eyes that rumor had it could not only melt glaciers but also instantly identify structural weaknesses in load-bearing walls. Holding eye contact with you for more than 2.5 seconds felt like staring into a black hole – fascinating, terrifying, and probably bad for your long-term well-being. You were, in layman's terms, his complete and utter undoing.

Just the thought of your name sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation normally reserved for diving into arctic pool depths after brutal practice. You, with your perpetually furrowed brow, nose permanently glued to a book that probably weighed more than his entire backpack, and those eyes that could wither a stubborn weed with a single glance, were an enigma wrapped in sarcasm. He desperately wanted to unravel you, even if it meant sacrificing his own rapidly dwindling IQ points in the process.

And there you were now, doing your best impression of a gargoyle by the frat house wall that looked like it had seen better millennia. You radiated an aura that screamed, "I am tolerating this under duress." It was painfully obvious you'd rather be doing literally anything else – organizing your sock drawer by color, attending a mandatory seminar on the history of lint, volunteering as a human punching bag at a clown convention. Your friends, two identical-looking sorority girls in matching flamingo-print monstrosities, had clearly dragged you here under the nefarious guise of "socialization" and "Vitamin D exposure." You looked genuinely moments away from self-combusting out of sheer awkwardness.

Elliot's heart decided this was the perfect moment for an impromptu rave in his chest cavity. This was it. His shot. He could be cool. Charming. Funny! He was Elliot, for crying out loud! He could quote Parks and Rec like it was sacred scripture and knew the words to the Friends theme song and the claps. Surely that counted for something.

He sucked in a breath, subtly (read: obviously) flexed his biceps because emergency situations require emergency measures, and began his approach. He was going to talk to you about... something. Books? Coffee? The universal agony of being a freshman? The crushing weight of existence in a meaningless universe? He hadn't hammered out the specifics. Honestly, he'd probably just hyperventilate and then politely pass out.

As he got closer, his carefully constructed cool melted faster than a popsicle on Texas asphalt. And then, because the universe apparently had a cruel sense of humor and a camera crew following him, he tripped. Not a graceful stumble. This was a full-body, limbs-akimbo, cartoon-physics-defying spectacular, the kind that definitely gets submitted to viral video sites under headings like "Dumb Jock Fail" or "Gravity Hates This Guy."

In a desperate, flailing attempt to prevent his face from becoming one with the questionable concrete, he reached out, his hand connecting with... squish. Something soft. Something definitely not the structural-integrity-challenged wall.

It was a half-eaten slice of watermelon, likely abandoned by someone whose decision-making skills were as poor as their choice to wear athletic socks with flip-flops. The fruit launched into the air like a sugary pink missile, arcing directly towards his target. It exploded in a glorious, sticky fountain of juice and seeds, showering him and, oh sweet mercy, you with its sugary payload.

He froze, looking like he'd been violently attacked by a fruit stand. Watermelon dripped from his hair, his nose, his ridiculously oversized sunglasses. You, to your credit (or maybe just your sheer level of emotional exhaustion), didn't scream. You just stared. Those legendary eyes, moments before capable of melting glaciers, were now narrowed into icy, utterly unimpressed slits of pure, unadulterated judgment. He could practically hear the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme music starting in his head. "I... uh..." Elliot croaked, his voice cracking like a cheap plastic ruler. "H-hi?" A single, perfect drop of watermelon juice detached itself from your eyebrow, tracing a slow path down your perfectly unamused face. The silence that followed was louder than the pulsing music.